


Night Games

by agatestones



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:12:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 22,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agatestones/pseuds/agatestones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harvey Specter isn't just the best closer in New York, he might be the best closer in all of Major League Baseball. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posted 21-22 just now.

Late August, pennant race, 3-2, top of the ninth. Music blares over the loudspeakers: Beethoven. The crowd has been roaring since long before the music cue, but they've held something in reserve and shake the air with their screams. It is an impressive effect, even on the home team. The outfield door swings open and the Ghost steps onto the warning track and tips his cap to home plate. He sprints to the mound, glove on his left hand, ready to blow the competition away.

Harvey Specter has a lot of saves under his belt. He's small for a pitcher, just under six foot and without the big thighs of a hurler. He's not young either: 31, first year into his big free-agent contract. His nape is neatly shaved under his ball cap and he wears none of the totemic jewelry -- magnetic necklaces, copper bracelets -- that are popular among his bullpen brethren. Bucking the trend of huge baggy trousers, his uniform fits him closely, in the old style. The pinstripes end at his knees and the black socks take over. As is Yankee tradition, he wears no name on his home jersey. You're just supposed to know who #00 is.

He doesn't need to throw long off the mound, just to keep himself warm while the network is on commercials. Litt is crouched behind home plate, mask firmly in place, though he adjusts it after every catch. He flashes a couple of signs against his thigh so Harvey will see: white tape on his index and ring fingers. Harvey might be the only pitcher on the team who knows that index finger is broken, victim of a bad foul tip two days ago in the 3rd. Catchers have a thing about playing hurt, moreso even than closers.

They get the go-ahead and the batter stands in. Harvey makes quick work of him. He's famous for his cut fastball, in on the hands of lefties and away from right-handed batters. He has honed his aim over the years so he can locate precisely that magical line at the edge of the strike zone, and fool almost any batter. The man in front of him goes down on three swings.

"All right all right," shouts Litt, and tosses the ball around the bases. Harvey's not a crazy perfectionist like Jim Palmer used to be, but he can see out of the corner of his eye that his second baseman is out of position, flapping his gums at the outfielders. That kid's going to be a problem. Harvey pushes that out of his mind and concentrates on the next batter.

He bends forward with his hands behind his back. White-marked fingers flash and Harvey nods his agreement. Litt throws a couple of extra signals -- one of them a warning to the shortstop about his clueless teammate -- and settles in the dirt. The umpire behind him leans in. Harvey sets his foot on the rubber and rears up and throws: hip, back, shoulder, elbow, wrist. That last flick as the ball leaves his fingertips gives it spin, and he balances on his landing foot as he watches the ball break late and evade the bat. Another strike.

Just for variety, he throws a ball next, and after that a four-seam fastball. Harvey can go off-speed, but generally doesn't unless he's stuck. All his pitches are pretty much set-up for the cutter, and he strikes out the second batter without too much trouble. The fans chant, Ghost Ghost, Ghost, an indistinct mass of voices.

Third up is Vega, a big guy from the Dominican, so tall he doesn't seem as fat as he is. He plays the fool on camera, goofy in his idiosyncratic English in interview, but he's been cleanup hitter for the past year for a reason. He's hit a few off Harvey, even: he can alway spot a mistake and capitalize on it into the bleachers. He narrows his eyes and sizes up what Harvey's got today, and finds him wanting. His mouth twitches into a smirk.

The Ghost doesn't lose his temper, not even on those rare occasions he gets waxed. (It happens to everybody; statistically it's got to happen. But it almost never happens to Harvey.) A smirk from a competitor isn't even an irritant, it's an incentive. Harvey throws a fastball by him and then teases him with a couple of balls low and inside. Vega doesn't swing: he's waiting on the cutter. Maybe he's seen a flaw in it. Maybe it isn't breaking as hard as it should today. The air is pretty dry for September. The break is never as good when the humidity's low. Harvey and Litt have a conversation with their eyes and then Litt paces out to the mound to repeat it with words.

"Use your goddamn tools," says Litt. That's a pep talk, coming from him.

"Eat shit, Louis," Harvey tells him, and Litt staks back to home plate with a chuckle.

But for all the chatter and the hand-signals from Litt, Harvey opts for the lower-risk proposition. He's been messing around with it on the side for a while now, and it's time to try it in a game setting. Litt sets up in the right place, expecting to catch the cutter again, and instead Harvey throws him a sinker.

It's not the best sinker he's ever thrown, but Vega's certainly not expecting it. He swings wildly and gets only a piece of it. Harvey feels more than sees the ball thump hard in the dirt in front of him and bounce up. He ducks and throws up his left hand and by the unlikeliest of chances the ball smacks into the webbing of his glove and he closes his hand over it. He lands on his ass in the dirt and throws from there to first for the out. 

The stands erupts with noise. Somewhere the loudspeakers are playing Sinatra, but nobody in Yankee Stadium can hear it. Vega shakes his head, laughing, and walks away. Another win for the team, another save for Harvey, another bit of aura for that Ghost mystique. His teammates line up for high-fives and Litt bumps him in the chest with a fist. "You devious motherfucker," he says to Harvey, and the outfielder behind him cracks up.

Over near the dugout, the cameras are limbering up, talking heads ready for action. They'll want to talk to Harvey about the surprise sinker, but he stalks away toward the showers instead. The Ghost doesn't do on-field interviews. He hardly does interviews at all: mostly he makes Litt do the talking for him, and Litt loves to talk. It's a fine arrangement. Besides, Harvey has about an hour of icing and rubdown to do before he can even think about getting dressed. He's got to take care of his arm. Not a lot of pitching you can do without it.


	2. Chapter 2

When the September call-ups arrive, they're the usual mixture of aging last-chancers and appalling preteens. Five position players, two relievers and a spot-starter named Cornelius Jones who's been up and down from AAA all season. "Think you'll stick this time?" asks Esmeraldo, one of the middle relievers.

Instead of answering, Jones knocks wood. He's 29. He's only two years younger than Harvey, but he didn't get drafted in the second round out of college and called up at 22. He didn't sign a nine-year contract with a no-trade clause last winter. Harvey doesn't know Jones well enough to guess what prospects he's got once he's too old to play.

Next to Jones are the two new relievers, one on either side. The manager obviously thinks Jones will be a stabilizing influence on them: Evans and Ross. Harvey hasn't even met them yet, just seen their names come off the label-maker. He is taking off his street shoes when the two of them walk in like a latter-day Laurel and Hardy and head toward their labeled areas.

Evans is tallish, not big but not too small either, unobjectionable for a middle reliever. The other one, Ross, looks like a drinking straw. He reaches out and touches his brand-new jersey with silent awe, oblivious to the other players around him. Harvey shakes his head and gets on with changing into his uniform.

There are always a few in the clubhouse who go out of their way to introduce themselves to rookies and call-ups. They shake hands like they're running for office, memorize names, call out encouragement. Mostly, Harvey doesn't bother. When you're alone on the mound, when it's all on you and your arm and your skills, all the love and support of your teammates is ashes, and their hatred too. All the cheers and the catcalls and the threats, even -- yeah, there have been threats -- that's got to fall away in favor of physics, and mechanics, and the art of the strikeout. Harvey doesn't see his way clear to coddling new players. They'll just get out onto the field and start ducking bottles thrown from the stands and have to learn for themselves. Harvey did.

So he ignores the sounds behind him as he gets himself ready for the game. Even the conspicuous cough over his shoulder: Harvey is working his glove, and that's always more important than playing nice. He inspects his spikes, meticulous, and doesn't turn around till Jones calls, "Ghost, hey Ghost."

"Hm?" Harvey doesn't love the nickname. There have been worse (in college, they called him Marvelous) but he'd be happy without one at all. Gimmickry is one of those necessary but irritating commercial aspects of the game, like posing for ESPN and pretending he doesn't think the FOX network announcers are as stupid as dirt. He looks over his shoulder and sees the two new kids, Jones between them.

Jones obviously takes his parental role seriously. "This is Trevor Evans and Mike Ross. You guys were in AA together, right?"

"Yeah," says Evans, and shoulders his way forward. He puts out a hand to shake and Harvey ignores it.

"Specialists?" he asks. He's been nagging the manager for a lefty specialist since April, and still doesn't have one. Or a set-up man worth a damn.

Evans squares his posture like he thinks he's a superhero. "I was closer in Trenton."

Behind him, Ross squirms a little. He's all knobs: wrists and elbows and adam's apple. It's hard to imagine he can get any velocity with that skinny a build. He says, "I set up for him. And I got a reverse split: my stats against lefties are good enough they use me as a one-out guy."

"You throw right, though?" asks Harvey, a little intrigued. He's never met a right-handed lefty specialist.

Ross nods, a funny little smile on his face. Cocky, but embarrassed at his own cockiness. Which is better than Evans's clueless confidence. "Got some weird physio thing with my hand. Guess I was born that way." His enormous forehead is unlined, untanned thanks to the bill of his cap. If not for the stubble on his chin, Harvey would swear the kid is still in middle school.

"How old are you?"

Ross turns red. "Nineteen."

Little whistles around the clubhouse. Jones joshes him, gentle. Harvey stays silent. He doesn't like players too young to drink in the majors. They usually don't know their limits, usually make a lot of noise. Promoted that young, that quickly, they usually think they're made of adamantium and don't have anything to learn. A lot of them flame out, used up and cast aside by the pennant-winning machine. And they listen to the shittiest music.

Litt leans a head into their row. He's wearing nothing but socks. "Oh good, fresh meat," he says. "Harvey, pitchers' meeting in ten minutes."

The picture of posed nonchalance, Evans adjusts his collar and swipes imaginary dirt off his sleeve. Beside him Ross is wide-eyed, glancing around quickly to assess everyone else's behavior. Harvey catches his eye and shakes his head with a little chuckle. They've got all September to get to know Louis Litt's hairy ass, and the glory he takes in showing it off.

"I hope like hell Jessica knows what she's doing," Harvey says, as a way of dismissing his rookie audience. Ross opens his mouth to correct that violation of protocol, but he's got just enough sense he doesn't say it. He watches Harvey with a suspicious little expression on his face: he's guessed Harvey is exempt from the usual formalities, but hasn't yet sussed out why.

"She's in charge of the Yankees," Ross says at last. "I'm pretty sure Ms. Pearson always knows what she's doing."

"Well," sniffs Harvey, and turns to go. "She did hire me." 

He heads down the cavernous hallway with Ross's laughter behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

The bullpen is a locus of magnificent boredom. Moreso, Harvey thinks, than the dugout, mostly just because in the dugout you're in the shade, harder to see in the everpresent TV cameras, and can disappear into the clubhouse if you need to. With nothing better to do than scratch their balls for the first two hours of any given game, members of the bullpen have to scratch their balls in full view of God, the bleacher bums, and the YES Network.

It's Wednesday, and after tonight's game they're headed off on the road. Mostly in the division, now they're late in the season, so it's Toronto and then Boston and then three games in Cleveland before they come home again. Harvey is eager to be off to the airport, not only because the game is 15-6 in the 6th inning. He pitched yesterday and the day before, so there's no chance he'll get used tonight. All he's got to do is wait, and try not to kill any of his fellow relievers.

Three or four guys are sitting in the corner chatting about their children in Spanish. Sasaki and his translator are watching the crawl along the infield, talking to each other with big hand gestures: Sasaki reading aloud and his translator explaining the nuances of pronunciation. Jones has mastered the art of Zen patience, an empty water bottle between his fingertips that he can drum for entertainment but otherwise content with his own thoughts. The new kid, Evans, needs to take a lesson in getting out of his teammates' hair. He drags Ross with him over to the pitching coach, to talk to the cop who guards the door, to work out some kind of juggling routine with the catcher: life of the party. Ross has a little notebook in his back pocket that he whips out when Evans isn't looking, and makes notes in it.

"Look alive," Evans calls, and soft-tosses a ball to Harvey. Harvey was not born yesterday, and he catches it with one hand and stuffs it into his pocket.

"Grow the fuck up," he growls, and re-crosses his arms where he's sitting. The rest of the bullpen darts wary glances at each other: the first rule of the bullpen is Don't Piss off The Ghost. The second rule of the bullpen is, Don't Piss off The Ghost. 

Honestly, Harvey hasn't scared the daylights out of a teammate in years. He's only ever done it twice in his life. But these things develop their own legacies, and if it takes fear for Harvey to get some quiet in his bullpen, he'll take it.

Ross parks his skinny little ass on the bench, not too close to Harvey. He pulls out his notebook again and writes something down.

"You scoring the game?" Harvey asks. It's possible to do from the bullpen, when you're watching the action backwards and can't see the pitches worth a damn, but not many people bother.

"Notes on the batters," says Ross. His adam's apple bounces up and down as he talks. "Messering's got a hitch in his swing."

Harvey has not been paying close attention, but he's pitched to Messering a bunch of times. "Yeah. Trouble with his left elbow. He doesn't have full extension of the joint."

Pencil scratching industriously, Ross takes that down. "Is he avoiding surgery or does he just not realize it's a weakness?"

"Fuck if I know," Harvey tells him. "Go ask his teammates."

Ross narrows his eyes, as if he's considering it. His pencil touches the page again and Harvey can see it over his shoulder: his notes are in some kind of code or encryption, all dots and symbols like he's a spy. Ross notices the direction of the glance and shrugs.

"I heard there's no privacy in baseball."

"That's crying you're thinking of," Harvey tells him. "You're in the majors now. You don't have to watch your left fielder rub one out to the Disney Channel unless you want to."

Shocked, Ross whoops laughter. Evans sidles over in hopes of catching the joke. "Anyway," says Ross, recovering his composure, "better safe than sorry, right?"

It's a sentiment so self-evident Harvey does not need to agree with it aloud. He and Ross go back to watching the game. Evans, disappointed they won't entertain him, wanders off to bother somebody else.


	4. Chapter 4

Baseball is a game of traditions. The rookies are required to pass through customs in Toronto in drag, as always. Most of them are wearing luxurious blond wigs, but the position players went out and found a baby bonnet and one of those sucking things for Ross, and he signs autographs at the airport gamely with the thing tucked into a corner of his mouth like a speakeasy cigar. People with children know what that thing is called. Harvey does not.

They got in late and Harvey crashed in his room for five hours and now he's up and at the park. It's a dome, with shitty fake-grass and weird shadows from the overheads. Harvey always stalks the field before an away game, alert to the idiosyncrasies of the ground, the walls, the mistakes his fielders will make. In the bullpen, Evans is getting in his pitches: fastballs, all of them, not very artful. He relies on being able to hide the pitch behind his head until just before he throws, but deception is only useful if you vary your pitches. Harvey turns away. Everybody loves a fireballer, even when his repertoire is boring.

He checks in with the night's starter and checks out the preliminary line-up and the next time he looks over it's Ross in the bullpen, throwing something extremely strange. Harvey isn't the only player who ambles over and rests his elbows on the wall for a look. Ross, to his credit, does not notice his audience.

There have been successful skinny pitchers in the majors, even Hall of Famers. Most of them have been like Randy Johnson though, fantastically tall and 90% legs, able to use momentum instead of body-mass. The conventional wisdom is that under six foot and under 180 pounds is too small for anything but short relief: the stresses on the body are just too violent, and pitchers with small frames wear down. (Harvey's had shoulder trouble three times, though just the one surgery so far.) So there's Ross standing there with his foot on the rubber, and he lifts up his knee practically to his chin. Then the big step and he throws, leg arcing behind him with his toe pointed -- momentum instead of mass -- but he doesn't throw all that hard. 75, maybe. Not a major-league fastball. Harvey watches the bullpen catcher drop the ball, and have to chase it as it bounces away.

Mutterings from his teammates. Ross ignores them and throws again. Harvey watches the stitches on the ball as it flies: they don't tumble. The ball is flying in a straight line with almost no spin on it, like a knuckleball. It flutters up in the wind and hits the catcher right in the face-mask.

Ross is pleased. He watches the catcher re-settle himself for the next pitch with a small, private smile on his face. The glove on his left hand flexes around the ball, and then Ross puts his right hand on the outside of the glove and bends back his fingers like he's popping the joints, like a nervous gesture. His fingers bend backwards fantastically, up to 90 degrees and then a little more, as if he had no muscles anchoring the bones. He looks like Plastic Man, re-shaping his body any way he feels like. To Harvey's left he sees Litt nod and mutter to his backup.

Steady, unselfconscious, Ross gets in his pitches. He varies it a little bit -- okay fastball, good sinker, a change-up like a hypnotist's dream -- but the flutter ball is his anchor pitch. The bullpen catcher chases all around that little space, like a terrier after a ragdoll.

When he comes off the mound, Ross loses his command. He sees all the eyes on him and his shoulders go up and his chin comes down. He accepts a pat on the back from the pitching coach and walks back toward the clubhouse with his eyes on the fake-grass of the outfield. Harvey turns, starts walking, and manages to be at Ross's side without seeming like he did it on purpose.

"Get rid of that habit," he says under his breath. He examines the seats behind home plate, empty for now. They'll fill up soon enough. "The way you put your hand against your glove. You're tipping your pitch."

Ross frowns, but he keeps walking. "I get cramps. In my palm. I have to stretch it out between pitches sometimes."

"Find another way," Harvey tells him. " A subtler way. Deception's a big tool when you don't have power. Use it."

Jessica Pearson is standing in a knot of people near home plate, probably discussing the playoff roster. Harvey peels off and leaves Ross behind. He feels Ross's curiosity like a hot wind on his back.

Harvey doesn't think of himself as the kind of player who gives free advice. He'll have to think about that later, about why he gives a shit what Ross does or doesn't do, about why he would intervene when Litt will surely take him in hand. In the meantime, though, he has to go say hello to Jessica, and thank her for finally seeing it his way and finding him a lefty specialist. Even if his lefty specialist is a right-handed teenager made out of Silly Putty.


	5. Chapter 5

Boston is a too-small city with a too-small ballpark and a too-big ego. The games are always tense and long, exhausting even if you don't pitch. Harvey almost always pitches against Boston. He's one of the few who doesn't flinch at the pressure. They're both going to the playoffs, obviously (well, obviously unless the Red Sox collapse into a histrionic mess, as they seem to do with some regularity), so all they're fighting over is home field advantage in the Championship Series. That, and to get into each other's heads, undermine a little confidence. Harvey's pretty good at that part.

The worst thing about being closer is that you don't get to open. Harvey watches the game from the bullpen, nerves singing. He wants to go in in the fourth, two on one out, but he's the closer and you have to let your starter get out of the messes he makes for himself. He wants to go in in the seventh, when the starter gets to 100 pitches and comes out, swearing all the while because he's ready to go another 100, but Harvey's the closer and the other relievers need the practice. He wants to go in in the eighth, up by one run and that fast centerfielder on third, but Harvey's the closer. The phone rings and Ross is beckoned to warm up.

It's only been three days since Harvey told him to quit stretching his hand in public. He's worked out an alternative, though: he puts his glove on wrong-handed, onto his right hand, and then pulls it off in a way that bends his fingers back. It almost looks natural, and it doesn't look like what it is. Ross gets warm and he starts throwing his magic flutter pitch, a goofy little nervous smile on his face. Harvey watches him locate and wants to give him notes, and wants to take the ball away from him and go in his stead. The bullpen door opens and off goes Ross for his major league debut.

He doesn't get any music. He's too new, and besides, it's an away game. Ross jogs through the outfield in his gray uniform with 92 sewn to the back: a rookie number. The kind of number that if he survives the winter and comes back next April, maybe he'll be able to trade down to a lower one. (The Yankees being who they are, almost all the single-digit numbers are already retired. Harvey's the only player who's worn 00 to date, and intends to be the last.) Out on the mound, Ross looks like a lollipop, big head on his little stick-body. The announcer calls him Michael instead of Mike.

And the hell of it is, Harvey can't watch him pitch. He's got to warm up, and he knows it. If everything goes right, Ross will come off the mound at the end of the inning and Harvey will replace him to close out the game. If everything goes wrong, Harvey will still replace him, and still close out the game. He's perfectly able to throw five outs, especially in a pennant race, especially against the Red Sox. He strips off his jacket and starts to stretch out his shoulder.

You can tell how an away game's going by how quiet the crowd gets. They squeal when their team is gaining momentum, and go silent when things go the other way. Harvey's first toss is under hazard conditions, the home team 90 feet away from tying it up and the bleachers intent on letting you know about it. But as he pulls together his form and finds his armslot, the shouting diminishes. He looks up: fans are sitting down in twos and threes, who a moment ago were on their feet. That huge bubble of hope that's built up on noise and expectation just deflates without a groan or a protest, like the popping of a soap bubble. Ross must be doing something right.

Harvey warms up most of the way through the top of the ninth. Ross went off the mound into the dugout (there to be assaulted with congratulations by his teammates) so Harvey hasn't even seen him to know how he thinks he did. All the gauge he has is the crowd, their milling disorganized gabble. A minute ago they were lauding their heroes and now all they can muster is a _Yankees Suck_ chant. Harvey can feel his heart beat in time with the syllables. There is no other moment like this. The bullpen door opens, and it's his turn.

Off his own home field, he never tips his cap to home plate. He just sprints into the infield and up onto the mound. Litt is waiting for him. The whole park is waiting for him. The corners of Litt's eyes are crinkled up behind his mask: Ross obviously did well.

And Harvey closes it out. Strikeout, lineout to first base, strikeout swinging. He doesn't think, just takes in Litt's hand-signs and puts out pitches. It's a high no drug can give him, all concentration and the worries fallen away. He is ready for the fourth batter when Litt jogs towards him, ball in hand, and Harvey remembers there are only three outs per inning. It's a disappointment, really. He could pitch forever.

The fans have their backs to him, filing dully toward the exits. Harvey takes the high-fives of his teammates and glances over at the dugout and sees Ross, the bench coach corralling him with a hand on his sleeve. They didn't even let him take a shower, but held him back so he could go under the klieg lights for the first time. The cameraman hefts his equipment and turns it on. That adam's apple bobs as Ross swallows and wipes his sweaty hands on his thighs.

He'll be fine, Harvey reasons. They give lessons now in how to talk on-camera, same as how to tie a necktie and hire an agent. Harvey corrals Litt anyway, and sends him toward the camera. "Make sure he doesn't say anything stupid," he says.

"I'll tell him you love him," Litt teases, but he's at Ross's elbow before the interview even starts. The sweat on Ross's forehead shines and he can't stop grinning. All the way through the interview, whatever appropriate platitudes he marshals for the fans at home, he never stops grinning. He's still doing it when the camera turns off and Litt reminds him which way is up and which the way to the showers. Harvey watches him the whole time.


	6. Chapter 6

No baseball player is honestly a morning person. When your job starts at 7 PM, and is powered by adrenaline, you're lucky if you're in bed by 2 AM and up the next day at 10. Harvey is definitely not a morning person.

His neighbor Bessom wakes him at 6. It's not pretty. "Got a Situation," says Bessom.

Bessom is from Texas. He talks like a state trooper, presumably because he comes from a family of them. Harvey has roomed next to him on the road for four years, swapped keycards and sometimes in adjoining rooms. He can put on a perfect impression of Bessom's accent and manner, down to the way he trash-talks _that individual_ in lieu of _that shmuck_. Bessom is seven inches taller than Harvey and half a person wider and is the fourth starter. He strongly dislikes Situations.

Harvey follows him down the hallway in his underwear, carpet under his bare feet. There are worse hotels in the cities they travel to: Boston's pretty good overall. He turns a corner and Boston's good hotel carpets are marred with the presence of Trevor Evans, completely naked, face-down, and unconscious. Jones is crouched beside him, taking his pulse.

"Fuck. Is he dead?" Harvey peers over Jones's shoulder.

"I don't get to kill him till he's awake," says Jones. Between the two of them they roll him over. "Mike woke me up with all the -- giggling and shit. He's in my bed now stoned out of his mind. He's the one told me Trevor was out here."

Well, shit. Evans is breathing evenly and his pulse seems strong. He isn't bleeding or missing any body parts (yet). Bessom heads off down the hall to break into Evans's room and Jones and Harvey move his heavy naked body. The kid's head lolls between his shoulders, and he snores abruptly. He reeks of dope. Bessom is waiting red-faced at the door: there's a woman asleep in Evans's bed, as bareassed as he is.

They manage to get Evans into bed without rousing anybody else. They're not due back at Fenway for another 8 hours. Maybe he'll be coherent by then, but probably not. Stupid kids do stupid shit like that all the time, and only sometimes manage not to screw up their entire careers. Baseball takes a hard line on recreational drugs. Harvey risks a quick check on Ross, just to make sure he's resting on his side and won't choke on his own puke if it comes to that.

Indeed, he is resting on his side. Ross is fast asleep in Jones's bed, curled up in a ball with only the white sheet over him. It's obvious he's still wearing his street clothes under that sheet, including his shoes. The rest of him looks relaxed but his mouth is tight. He mumbles to himself, dreaming, as Harvey watches.

"They do not pay me enough to be a babysitter," says Jones wearily, and claims the keycard to Ross's room. "If you go away right now, I _might_ be something other than a surly bitch come game time."

"Well," says Bessom, as they head back down the hall, "at least nobody threw up."

"Small favors," says Harvey, and goes back to bed.


	7. Chapter 7

None of the pitching staff are preachers. (Okay, Esmeraldo might have been, kind of, back in his native Cuba. He doesn't like to talk about that time.) They aren't above a little revenge, though, so when Harvey gets to the park and discovers pitchers are on mandatory defensive practice, he can guess how that got set up. He fields his position and throws to first like all the rest, comfortable in the repetition of movement, and then watches Evans fall all over himself, still groggy. The starters hoot at him and Harvey shares a smirk with Jones.

"Whatcha doin?" asks Litt as he strolls across the grass. His voice has that piercing quality that can make anyone with a hangover wince. Evans winces, and misses the ball coming at him. It hits him in the knee. "Besides that, I mean."

"Good one," Harvey mutters, as Litt comes up close. "I guess you heard."

"Oh everybody heard, my otherworldly friend. Bessom decidedly does not like Situations."

Bessom is standing with the other pitchers, awaiting his turn fielding fungoes. In front of him is Ross, a little pale, but otherwise alert. He frowns at Evans's clumsiness.

Litt puts a hand on his hip and provides a bit of off-color commentary. "Oh, and Evans misses again! Oh no, better luck next time, Evans. And next we have Ross, who hails from the great state of -- Where you from, Ross?"

Ross flexes his knees, ready. His eyes track the ball bouncing towards him and he slides into position and catches it and throws it to first. "New York," he says out of the side of his mouth. 

"Local boy made good, sports fans, and he fields another. A slim young sprat from Attica --"

"Staten Island," calls Ross, as a ball takes a tricky hop over his head and he leaps to stop it.

"Ah yes," Litt goes on, unruffled, "the forgotten borough. Like Attica would be if the prison guards were sharks."

Harvey bites his tongue. He and Litt are the only locals from the tri-state area on the team, except for Ross. Most of the roster probably _does_ forget about Staten Island, if they've ever heard of it in the first place. 

"And Ross throws out the runner at first. Yes, he can walk and chew gum at the same time! A round of applause for the multi-talented Mike Ross!"

The pitchers duly applaud him. Ross has worked up a healthy sweat and managed not to drop a single ball. It's confounding how much less badly off he is than Evans: either he inhaled a lot less or he's habituated to it a lot more. He executes a little bow to his audience, and gets out of the way for Bessom to take over.

He's got an embarrassed smile on his face as he paces over to where Harvey is standing. "Hi," he says, as if last night didn't happen, or more likely as if he doesn't know that Harvey was on the squad that saved his ass from a mandatory suspension.

"Don't talk to me, rookie." Harvey turns away with a wave of his hand. "Go apologize to Jones first."

Litt watches over Harvey's shoulder for him. "I think you hurt his wittle feelings."

"Good," says Harvey. He's looking into the stands, and sees that Jessica has watched the whole exercise. It's possible that Bessom has taken his dislike of Situations all the way to the top. It's not too hard for a random drug test to randomly happen, if Jessica wants it so. She nods at Harvey and he heads over to say hello.

She's wearing designer sneakers and jeans, her usual. When she needs to intimidate, she still breaks out the heels, but in heels she can't walk on the field. She takes pretty good stock in being able to watch her employees up close. She comes down to the front row and swings a leg over the wall and walks into the infield dirt. Not a lot of women get to do that, not a lot who aren't wives or girlfriends or hangers-on. Jessica Pearson is the general manager of the best and most storied team in baseball, and she's the only woman in her position. She waits for Harvey to get close with her smartphone in her hand.

"Care to advise me on any roster changes?" she asks. That arch of her eyebrow: of course she knows all.

"Please tell me the Evans kid is out."

"Because of last night's infraction or because he can't recover from it?"

"Both. He was naked, you know."

"I know," she says. "What about Ross?"

Harvey thinks hard. "You brought him up for me, right?"

"I know it's hard to believe," she demurs, "but I have the whole team's interests at heart."

"He's good. I mean, I assume he's good. He held a one-run lead with a man on third."

"He did."

"I need a lefty specialist."

"So you keep saying."

"I vote keep him for now," Harvey says at last. He adds, "Switch up room assignments, park him between a pair of evangelicals. Make sure he knows he's being punished. And consider hiring Jones as a minor league coach when he retires. He's got the attitude for it."

"You have no idea what Jones has already told me," says Jessica sweetly.

"Probably better that way," Harvey says to himself.


	8. Chapter 8

Which is why he isn't surprised to get back to his hotel room that night and discover the adjoining door to Bessom's room locked. Bessom's a good guy _and_ a tattletale: he'll keep Ross in line. Harvey leaves his side of the door open, on the assumption Jones will show up, and they'll have a laugh about the folly of youth.

He's singing in the shower when he hears a tell-tale _snick_ of the deadbolt on Bessom's side of the door. "Hello?"

"Hold your goddamned horses," Harvey calls. It doesn't sound like Jones. He bustles back into the bedroom in his towel only to find Ross framed in the doorway, sitting on his bed with his suitcase at his feet.

"Hi," says Ross, his voice as small as his hunched shoulders.

Harvey groans. He turns right around and goes back into the bathroom and turns the shower back on. "Go away," he says over the steam. He gives Ross a good long time to go away, the hot spray a massage on his neck and shoulders, but there's no sound of anyone coming or leaving. When his fingers prune up, Harvey gives in and turns off the water. "You're still here, aren't you," he calls as he towels off.

"I don't think they'll let me sleep in the lobby," Ross calls back. Harvey pokes his head out and the damned kid is still sitting in the same position, his suitcase untouched.

Not much to be done about it now. Jessica tells you to hop, you turn frog for as long as she needs it. "Just stay out of my way," Harvey tells him, and slams shut the adjoining door. He pulls on some underwear and gets down to his evening rituals: he's not going to be sidetracked by little lost lamb and his drug problem. Harvey combs his hair in the mirror and hunts down the rubber ball he uses for hand-strength exercises and counts off.

Ross pushes the door ajar and watches shyly. "Does that work?" he asks, and Harvey loses count.

"It does when I can do it uninterrupted. Now shut up." Harvey's used to it by now, and can do almost anything wrong-handed while squeezing a hard rubber ball in his pitching hand. He's halfway through brushing his teeth when he gets to 100. He finishes up and pulls on a t-shirt and gets out his phone. 

Ross is still standing in the doorway, wide-eyed. Harvey ignores him.

"Donna, hey. Sorry about the hour."

"How's my favorite closer?" Her voice comes warm down the line. She's in California, so it isn't even that late for her. But that's part of the ritual: he always apologizes about the hour, since that time he won a playoff game at 2:31 AM.

"Aw, they beat us, 4-0. You heard from Jessica?"

"Just a quick note. She said she had a present waiting for you in Bessom's room."

"Oh, I got it." With Ross standing there listening, there's no way he's going to get into it. "You working hard for me?"

"Hardly working," she laughs. This time last year, the answer was always working hard. She negotiated him into an unprecendented paycheck for a closer. She's allowed to pay attention to her other clients now.

"You're still the greatest," he tells her, and means it for once.

"I know," she says, and hangs up.

Ross's fingers circle the doorknob like a promise ring. "Girlfriend?" he asks, incurious.

"Agent." Ross nods. He still hasn't moved. Harvey tells him, "I'm going to bed. You want lights, the hallway is yours."

Harvey pushes the door to (he might push it against Ross's toes; he's not sure) till it clicks. In the dark, he slides between the sheets in the dark and punches down his pillow. He's done it a hundred times with Bessom in the other room, and never a problem. He can _hear_ Ross hesitating, his shadow under the door. But Harvey is not a babysitter and all evidence to the contrary Ross is not a baby. Harvey closes his eyes. It's almost twenty minutes before Ross does anything.

"They're getting rid of him." His voice is resonant through the door, like an echo. "Trade him for spare parts, she said."

Harvey says nothing.

"But not me," Ross mumbles. "She thinks she can _make something_ out of me."

"Go to bed, Ross," Harvey tells him. "Call your mother in the morning."

"My mother's been dead for ten years."

Well, shit. Harvey lies there in the dark and listens to Ross sniffle. He makes a deal with himself: if he counts to 100 and it's still going on, he's allowed to claim game-readiness and go kick someone else out of _their_ room. Probably Bessom. 

"If we're gonna live next to each other," says Ross at last, his voice firming up, "you should probably start calling me Mike." 

"Go to bed, Mike."

Rustling clothes, for the first time. The shadows under the door move away. The thud of shoes dropped on the carpet. "Good night, Harvey."


	9. Chapter 9

Boston doesn't even make it interesting in the rubber game. The team flies off to Cleveland to hassle the Indians and they're not much of a challenge either. Harvey goes in at the end of a 6-1 game just to get in his pitches. They make Mike throw batting practice.

Which is a laugh riot, honestly. The lineup has seen him throw a couple times now, but they've never _faced_ him. He releases the ball like he's waving goodbye, and it wafts out of his hand and off into anywhere. Harvey leans on the outside of the batting cage and watches as one hitter after another looks foolish: too soon, too late, way too high. Powerful, canny sluggers, the best in the business, and no way to guess where the ball is coming at them. They might as well swing blindfolded and they'd have better luck.

"Mesmerizing, isn't it?"

Harvey is so involved in watching the ball he hasn't noticed a woman standing next to him. So yeah, mesmerizing. You've got to have eyes good enough to see the stitching on the ball to be able to tell it's not rotating the way a fastball would. (Harvey's eyes are still good enough. He makes a mental note to ask Donna about the possibility of contacts someday.) Harvey looks over at his fellow spectator: dark hair, prominent nose with freckles dusted across it. She wears team-branded clothes but Harvey doesn't recognize her.

"Rachel. I'm the new physiotherapist."

"That kid's knuckles are unreal," he tells her, in the interest of science.

"You're the Ghost." She smiles, squinting in the sun. She's going to have to learn to pin back her hair, or she's going to be blowing it off her face more often than not. "I'm actually here for you."

"I'm flattered," Harvey says dully. Another one of Jessica's ideas. "But I'm not in any pain."

"But you've just started throwing a sinker, maybe only 5% of your game pitches but considerably more during practice. It's better if someone supervises the extent and angle of your wrist pronation."

Harvey turns back toward the mound. Another flutterball dances over the plate untouched. "Your job is literally to hold my hand."

"Or browbeat you into a baseline MRI, whichever's more convenient." She smiles, to take the sting out of it. "I can look at your wrist while you're icing the shoulder. It won't add any time to your postgame routine."

It's the right thing to do, and Harvey knows it. It's also the kind of thing aging stars do to get that last sliver of usefulness out of themselves before they're dumped on the scrap heap. Harvey's got eight years left on his contract. He's not ready to think of himself as old.

Rachel can read all that in his silence. She says gently, "Ms. Pearson's just protecting her investment."

They watch Mike throw, and listen to the batters curse. It's sunny, not warm enough to sweat unless you're working, light breeze that keeps the ball unpredictable. Mike wipes moisture off his forehead. He's not afraid of the batters, and they can tell.

"You should look at his knuckles anyway," says Harvey. "And his arm. If he can do that with his hand you might get more extension out of his shoulder for him."

"He's got one less metacarpal ligament than the usual," says Rachel, as if she's examined him already. Maybe she has. Maybe Mike's the talk of sports medicine. Maybe people frame his MRI in lieu of a baseball card. "He doesn't have Marfan syndrome."

"I don't even know what that is," Harvey tells her.

"And that," she says, grinning, "is what you've got me for."


	10. Chapter 10

It depends on the city what Harvey tells a girl. Boston, there's no point in lying: they pretty much all know who he is, or figure it out before the end of the night, and they're not always cute about it. He hardly ever picks up a girl in Boston. In Kansas City he claims he's a conventioneer; in Baltimore, a federal employee. Here in Cleveland, he passes himself off as a big-time tax lawyer, on a site visit for a corporate client. Women relate to him better when they think he's got a dayjob.

He leads Carla down the hall toward his room. She's curvy, brown-skinned, and not very tall even in her three-inch heels. She seemed to appreciate a certain level of handsiness in the elevator, but now in the hallway she keeps a polite distance. It's a reassuring detail. Harvey does prefer a woman with discretion. He pauses at the door and slides in the key-card, and like a gentleman he steps aside for her to enter first.

Carla's no fool. She sizes him up one last time before walking into his room. He's pretty sure he looks like what he is, a bored traveller with no compunction about ordering room service. She decides he's not a serial killer and steps over the threshold. They fall into bed without much need to discuss it: he helps her take off her heavy earrings and she turns down the hotel bedspread.

By chance this room doesn't have an adjoining door, so they can be as loud as they want. Harvey prefers women to tell only happy stories about him. He takes his time getting her naked, offers to hang up her dress once it's off her. Carla chuckles and asks for help instead getting off her pantyhose. They wrestle the nylon together with quiet laughter, his thumbs pressing into her hips. She is surprised to be offered oral sex, as if most of the men in her life think it's beneath them.

Her thighs tremble against his shoulders and she bites the back of her hand to keep from moaning. Harvey counts the stretch marks on her belly and watches her breasts shift as she squirms. She hasn't said anything about being a mother, and Harvey hasn't asked, same for last names. All they are is in this bedroom this one night, and that's plenty. Carla makes a high squeak and then yanks on his hair till he crawls up her body.

"Condoms?" she asks, and licks his face.

"Of course." 

She settles in on top, her thighs powerful against his flanks. Harvey enjoys the view. Her stamina is impressive; they're both sweaty and exhausted when things come to a conclusion. Panting side by side, they stare at the ceiling. It's 1 AM.

"Your personal trainer is a beast," says Carla faintly. Of course, she thinks he's a lawyer: wearing a noose and sitting on his ass all day.

He strokes her arm. "You could say that."

This is the time Harvey enjoys most: that post-coital cooldown, a radiant body next to him, the sweaty sheets. The way whatever they say doesn't matter, because they won't see each other again. Some of his best nights' sleep have been curled up against a stranger. 

He rolls over and pushes her hair off her face. It's been straightened, a bit brittle at the ends. He traces her eyebrows with a thumb and then touches her eyelashes. "Stay the night," he asks.

Carla smiles gently, a let-him-down-easy smile. "I have --" She stops before she gives up any details. He doesn't need to know about her kids, her house, an ex, a life; and she doesn't need him to know. "I have to get home," she finishes at last.

Argument would be useless, and ungracious besides. Harvey gets out of her way and offers her the shower. She hums to herself as she uses his bodywash, and he sits on the rumpled bed turning her pantyhose back right-side out. She puts her clothing back on and he zips up her dress for her. She smiles at him in the mirror. "Thank you," she tells him, and is ready to leave.

Still naked, Harvey leans down and kisses her. They haven't done that much: to much else to do. She kisses him back, leisurely. There's nowhere it can go now the night is over. They rest their hands on each other's shoulders and it comes to an end.

In case it needs to be said, Harvey says it: "You were glorious."

"You're not so bad yourself, Ghost." And that is Carla's exit line. She tucks her earrings back into her purse and heads for the door with a knowing little smile. Behind her, Harvey grins back till she's gone, and then crawls into bed alone.


	11. Chapter 11

They file onto the plane back to New York with relief: six days at home before the last road trip of the regular season. They're all tired and sore and sick of one another. It's like that in September. Harvey finds his usual, an aisle seat with a whole row to himself close to the front of the plane, and puts on his headphones. He's got his rituals, and one of them is not sitting with anybody on airplanes. Mike slings his carryon down on the other side of the aisle, and flops into the seat directly opposite Harvey.

They're close enough they'll probably start kicking each other before the flight is over: legroom's always at a premium. Harvey is opening his mouth to warn him off when Mike unzips his carryon and pulls out headphones too. Harvey decides to let him live.

Behind them, Nunez and Fortaleza challenge Jones to a card game. The slap of the cards on tray-tables is the last thing Harvey hears before he turns on the Bach and tunes out.

A hand on his shoulder startles him awake. It is disorienting, strange: that hot grip, a face close to his, lips moving but they make no noise. All Harvey can hear is the mathematical exactitude of Bach. Blue eyes roll and his headphones are plucked off his ears. "I said, do you want anything."

"I _was_ asleep," Harvey gripes, and sits up. Mike stands over him with a skeptical look on his face.

"No you weren't. We've been in the air ten minutes. Anyway, do you want anything? I'm getting a soda."

"Hypnotist taught me how," Harvey tells him. "Trust me, you don't want me awake." It's not well-known that he's a bad flier, but it's not a secret either. 

"Oh," says Mike. "Sorry." He moves off.

Headphones restored, Harvey glides back into semiconsciousness. The next thing he's aware of is the jolt of the wheels touching down in New York. The familiarity helps bring him back to himself: off the plane, onto the bus, onto the expressway back to the stadium. There are no press to worry about. Some of the players chat quietly, but they're all ready to go home. They're decanted into the stadium parking lot and most of them go straight to their cars.

Harvey lets himself in to his apartment to find nine days worth of newspapers stacked neatly on the kitchen counter. Ray's work, obviously; Harvey hired him just to make sure the trash got taken out (after a disaster involving spoiled yogurt and a fourteen-day west coast trip) but he has all the little touches that make Harvey feel like he isn't a bored bachelor in a house he never sees. He has thought about paying Ray to pick him up at the stadium too, but that seems a little needy, so he hasn't.

Over ice cream directly out of the carton, Harvey reads the sports pages. Donna's got a clip service, so it's not really necessary; she keeps every mention of his name. But it's nice to see the games in context: the whole team, the flow of days. The box scores lie in neat rows and Harvey works through them now and then, just for fun. A pitcher he knew in college, a hitter he's faced down too many times. It's good to keep an eye on what the competition is doing, and not just rely on Litt's notebooks and his own memory.

Harvey turns the page and smoothes down an action photo: that night in Boston. It was a classic game. The photographer caught Mike mid-throw, his hand in super-sharp focus, fingers bent backwards at a ninety degree angle from his palm. A lot of pitchers look like they're passing a kidney stone when they're snapped mid-throw, all that effort whipping through their bodies and their eyes bugged out besides. Harvey's no different. But Mike throws so gently he might as well be flicking water off his fingertips. His pushoff foot is upraised behind him, but only just. He's hardly bent forward at the hips, and his face -- on his face is the wildest expression of delight and concentration. Even his cap is high, set back on his head and in danger of falling off.

The season's a grind, every year. Too much travel, too-long games, bad weather and bad food and millionaires in bad moods trapped together on an airplane. There are times when Harvey thinks about retiring and taking up a life of indolence and a fantastically expensive hobby, like sailing or model trains or Civil War reenactment. Some other thing to occupy him, a task that requires his brain and not his arm. But then a little thing, the smell of grass or the rosin bag, the sun burning his neck or the smooth white leather of the ball between his fingers: a little thing brings him back and he'll play till his arm falls off. After, and teach himself to throw left-handed. He'll toss underhand from a lawn chair in old-fogeys' games after his knees fail. He'll never let it go long after his dignity and fanbase have shrunk away.

That look on Mike's face in the photograph: it's comforting to know that Harvey's not the only one.


	12. Chapter 12

It's a Saturday night in New York in September, crisp and gorgeous and the lights go on forever. Harvey can feel the chill of Autumn in his teeth as he sucks in a breath on the mound. The camera flashes are everywhere in the stadium, like standing inside a mirror ball. He is absolutely cool. He bends over and puts his eyes on Litt and the signal is there. He stands back up and is ready to throw. 

It's a fine fastball, two-seam, high and outside. Nobody should be able to hit that goddamned pitch. The batter reaches out and taps it, not hard, but hard enough. It flies over Harvey's head and guess the hell what, second base is not paying any fucking attention. A liner that could have been caught bounces in shallow center-right instead. Harvey has the self-restraint not to swear in front of the cameras; he can hear the fans groan. They know. The batter cruises in leisurely to first and it can't even be called an error. GodDAMN.

There's nothing to do but mop up his own team's mistakes. That's what a closer does. Harvey buckles down and faces the next batter and strikes him the fuck out. 60,000 people thunder their approval. That one syllable, over and over, Ghost, Ghost, Ghost. It's the best sensation in the world.

It hardly matters that there's one out left in the game. There's no batter who can fight that momentum. Harvey doesn't even need to strike him out: he swings at the first pitch, and fouls it high. All that's left is for Litt to toss aside his mask and camp out under it, that huge lovely glove waiting, leather on leather. It's caught: game over. You wouldn't think it could get louder but it does.

Yankees spill onto the field, congratulations all around. Harvey whaps Litt on the back once, hard, and then ducks out of the line of high-fives. Harvey needs to hold onto the feeling a little longer, so he walks away by himself, back out toward the bullpen. Fans call to him, call him by name. He waves and ducks his head. The outfield grass goes on forever.

Harvey looks up and there's Mike. He's got Harvey's jacket. "That was awesome," he says. He opens his mouth to say more, but then he thinks better and he just says the same thing again: "That was awesome."

"Yeah, I guess it was," says Harvey. 

They stand in front of each other and don't say anything. The crowd's thinned out a little and you can hear Sinatra now. _New York, New York_. Harvey's a part of it, and so is Mike. Top of the heap, king of the hill. Shyly Mike puts out a hand: the jacket. Harvey takes it and pulls it on. He tucks his glove into his armpit and thumps Mike on the shoulder. "Come on," he says. "Rachel's got to hold my hand, and then we can go out on the town."

"No we can't," Mike laughs, but he doesn't object as Harvey walks him back toward the dugout. They get almost all the way to the infield before Mike says, "I mean literally we can't. I'm underage. I can't go to a bar."

"No fake ID? Now that's just embarrassing," Harvey tells him. "I'll bet you a thousand dollars I can get you into any place you want to go. Tonight, any place you want." It feels magnanimous, to introduce the kid to the city Harvey knows. Find him a girl, make sure he's not a virgin. Harvey can already see it in his mind: Fashion Week is over, but the city's still stocked with models, out all night and looking to get noticed.

Mike's shrug brings his shoulders high. "Kind of avoiding mind-altering substances these days. Cause of." He doesn't have to go on. "Be cool to get a look at the city, though. I mean from above it. I went to the Empire State Building when I was in the fourth grade."

"The Empire State Building," Harvey says, in disbelief.

"If you can get me onto the roof of the Chrysler Building, I wouldn't say no."

"Oh you Staten Island rube. I live on the 48th floor, you know. Windows from here to heaven."

"Really?" 

The contract Harvey signed last winter, he could live in a dirigible if he wanted to. (Actually no: the contract specifically disallows him from flying a plane or helicopter himself. All Yankees contracts do, ever since Thurman Munson died in 1979.) "Really," Harvey said. "I'll take you there."


	13. Chapter 13

The city lies before them, bright like a promise. Harvey takes pride in his view. Mike stands beside him with a glass in his hand.

It's only water; he's serious about alcohol. It's possible Jessica put some fear into him. Harvey sips at his bourbon slowly.

"Man," Mike drawls. It's just shy of three in the morning. He's probably tired. His t-shirt is wrinkly under his jacket as if he'd fished it off the floor. "How much did you pay for that."

Harvey smiles to himself and runs a finger over the rim of his glass. "A unit on the 20th floor went for seven million last year. So the view's worth about... eight. More than half the sticker price. That's not what I paid for it," he adds as Mike looks away from the city for the first time.

"You own a fifteen million dollar apartment?"

"I do now," says Harvey. He makes 21 million a year. Mike clearly doesn't pay attention to contract news, or can't count that high. "I bought it after my first big arbitration year. Paid off the mortgage two years later."

"Fifteen million dollar apartment," Mike tells the southern tip of Manhattan. He takes a sip of water and his lower lip glistens in the reflected light.

"Stay healthy, you'll get there," Harvey reminds him.

"Fifteen million dollars," Mike says again, and laughs. It's something painful, something nasty. 

Probably not good idea to let the topic go on. "There's a good chance you'll be on the playoff roster," says Harvey. "We need a lefty specialist."

Mike rests his forehead against the window. He looks tired, overwhelmed. "They're not your friends," he says. His breath mists on the glass.

Without his cap to obscure it, Mike's forehead is white and very high. His fine sandy hair is silver in the night. Harvey examines him in hope of cues where the conversation is going, and gets nothing. "My teammates you mean?"

"Most of them hang out together in small groups, or play canasta in the clubhouse during a rain delay. But not you." Mike rotates without his forehead leaving the glass, and he's looking at Harvey. "You put on those headphones and you're all alone."

Harvey sips his bourbon. "I don't like canasta."

"You don't like _people_ ," Mike argues, and he sounds drunk even though he's not. He rubs his eyes; the night is nearly over. "You're the oldest member of the team who's never married."

"Yeah, and I'm the oldest member of the team who's never been divorced," Harvey snaps. He regrets his tone the minute he's done speaking: it sounds defensive. Mike can't know how the rumors have swirled around Harvey's head. Over 30 without getting hitched, in such a traditional league? What, don't you like women? He explains, "A lot of players marry just to have someone to come home to after a long road trip. It's cheaper to hire a housekeeper."

The look on Mike's face is half-joking, but half-grossed out in case it's not a joke. "You have sex with your housekeeper?"

"I don't have a housekeeper. I hired a guy to make sure this place doesn't burn down while I'm away."

"So you don't have anybody to come home to. That's why you're the Ghost." A little smile breaks out on Mike's face, and then the clouds of pity roll in. Emotions Harvey doesn't need or want.

"They call me Ghost because of my last name, Sherlock." He shakes his head. "Nobody ever accused the press corps of excess cleverness."

Mike steps away from the window and examines the ceiling. His neck is scrawny, like the rest of him is scrawny: it's worth remembering that he's still a teenager, and will fill out another 15 pounds over the next couple of years. Crackpot teenaged analysis is not something Harvey needs to take seriously. But Mike barrels on anyway. "You pass through the clubhouse without making an impact. They feel a weird cold shudder, and that's the only reason they know you've been there. Bessom told me that you're where rumors go to die, that nobody on the team can keep a secret, but you can."

The last of the bourbon coats the inside of Harvey's glass, an amber lubricant. He turns away and goes to put the glass down on a table. Baseball teams like junior-high homerooms are rife with ridiculous gossip: one part boredom, two parts loneliness, and a generous splash of social competition. It is not Harvey's fault that he can handle loneliness better than most. With his back to Mike he says, "I don't keep secrets, I just don't have a reason to tell anyone."

The central air is very quiet. This high up, the windows as thick as they are, there is no street noise and they're in silence. Mike is breathing hard, as if he's had to run to get where he is, or as if he's about to have to run away. He paces over to the table and puts down his glass next to Harvey's and they're looking at the artwork (something abstract, chosen by the decorator; Harvey has no idea what it's supposed to be) side by side.

"I'm gay," says Mike.

Harvey breathes out. Mike is twitchy beside him, anticipating an opinion like waiting for an axe to fall. Even indifference would come across as cruelty; and Harvey likes to think he is only cruel when provoked. "Okay," he says mildly.

"I just needed to tell someone." Mike is awkward now, exposed. He wants someone to hold his hand and Harvey is not that guy. He says, "I was basically out at Trenton. I know it's different in the big leagues, but --"

"It _is_ different." Harvey cuts him off, a little irritated. Of course this has to happen in the last week of the season. Of course they all need a distraction like this as they head into the playoffs. "You can get up to a lot of shenanigans in the minor leagues. The news coverage is thin and nobody cares anyway: it's all hazing or kid-stuff, something you'll grow out of."

"I'm not -- I won't grow out of this," Mike groans. His face crumples like a piece of paper when you're about to throw it in a trash can.

"If you tell anyone else, make sure the first person is Jessica. She'll have to work up a media strategy, maybe hire you your own press agent. And a bodyguard."

This kid is nineteen. He doesn't know anything about anything. His voice comes out hoarse: "A bodyguard?"

Harvey takes his time fetching the bourbon. He pours himself another drink, and then decides what the hell and pours off one for Mike as well. "Roger Maris got death threats just for hitting a baseball," he says quietly. Maybe Mike doesn't know that; maybe he's not a lifelong Yankees fan. "The crazies _will_ come out of the woodwork over a homo in pinstripes."

The window bays don't open more than a handspan, so you can't fall out of them. Mike goes back to the view, puts his hands on the steel windowsills like he's afraid he'll collapse. His breathing is uneven, but he keeps it together. Harvey approaches him slowly and they are two ghosts side by side: pale faces reflected indistinctly in the glass.

"You need a drink," he says. Mike eyes the swirl of amber liquid and shakes his head.

"I can't afford a bodyguard." His voice is ironic, but his face can't back that up. "Where would he sleep? I'm subletting a studio in Washington Heights."

Harvey drinks off the first bourbon before answering. Mike is drawn, exhausted. Rookies always wear themselves out over the course of a season: they do without sleep and don't eat well and start losing weight. It's no way to handle the stresses of the playoffs. "You look like shit. Spare bedroom is on the left," he tells Mike. "I won't wake you till it's time to head back to the stadium."

If he is nothing else, Mike Ross is obedient. Without argument, he turns toward the hallway, and then pauses and turns back. "I needed to tell someone," he insists, keen.

The second bourbon at his lips, Harvey nods. "And now you have." 

Mike seems to accept that, and disappears down the hall. Harvey stands there alone with the city lights and the alcohol for a long time.


	14. Chapter 14

They clinch the division at the Trop. It's a quick game, under 3 hours. Purser goes 8 and doesn't bother to shower, just hangs out in his uniform and icepacks in the dugout till it's over and the celebration can start. With the bullpen beside the foul lines, the relievers don't even have to jog far to join the throng. 

(Harvey hates that. He hates everything about Tropicana Field, the city of Tampa, and the whole concept of baseball in Florida after March.)

Even with the Yankees, even being in the mix pretty much every year, the players don't take it for granted. Veterans like Harvey have watched their playoff chances go to hell on a few bad pitches or a few bad knees late in September. And as worn out as they all are, it's pretty good to have something concrete to celebrate. The top players can go out and get wasted and wake up in Miami for all anybody cares, and it's the backups and callups who will play tomorrow. Everybody needs the acknowledgement of a long-sought goal achieved, and then they need the rest.

The rookie position players are verging on hysterical, even the ones with no chance of being on the team for the actual playoffs. Aware of the cameras, Harvey notes an unfortunate number of swear words as they dance around one another. The crowd is more than half Yankees fans, as usual. It's almost like clinching at home, except for the absence of the ghost of George Steinbrenner. (Ghost to ghost, Harvey takes that very seriously. He leaves offerings every April and October.) Litt comes barging through the crowd and hooks an arm around Harvey's neck and bellows something incoherent. Years of experience have taught Harvey to just stand still and take it, and sure enough Litt moves on to his next assault victim. Sasaki looks ecstatic to be strangled in turn.

The ugly secret is, Champagne (okay, California sparkling wine) damn well hurts when you get it in your eyes. Some guys put on swimming goggles and go pouring bottles out all over the place, and the cameras are all up in it, wrapped in plastic to avoid damage. Harvey snags his own bottle and drinks from its neck. He watches his teammates goof around like frat boys and thinks about how Mike described him, as someone who can flow through a room without leaving behind any impact. There are some activities of the clubhouse he's just as happy not to be a part of. If he wants company, he can hit a bar and find company, any time he wants.

As the drunkenness quotient increases, so does the clumsy affection, and he suffers through five hugs and a mis-aimed attempt at a head-butt just crossing the room to get at his stuff. Someone has put on hip-hop and is trying to organize a group sing. Harvey ducks into the trainers' room to change. Rachel is there, and Jones, both with sympathetic little smiles on their faces: they're wrestling someone into a chair. 

"You are the greatest," says that someone, and of course: it's Mike Ross. Not much of a drinker in the first place, probably new to Champagne. Not fewer than three sheets to the wind, maybe five or maybe that's just the euphoria. Jones laughs and shakes his head, but at least Mike is obedient. He flops down into his seat, loses his balance and then rights himself. He peers at the world as if he's wearing bad glasses, and spots Harvey. "Hey Corny, look, the Ghost appears!"

"Don't call me Corny," Jones pleads, as Rachel cracks up. "And if you could shut up generally that would be cool."

"What do we have here," Harvey asks rhetorically as Mike mimes zipping his lip and putting away the key in a pocket. His cheeks are pink and his hairline sweaty. Over his head, Jones is ironic.

"Youthful indiscretion. Or something. No point in Ms. Pearson seeing him like this."

Harvey is thinking about other potential indiscretions, the kind that happen when you can't handle your liquor. "Good choice."

"This is so awesome," Mike marvels. "You guys are awesome."

"Yeah, everything's awesome," Harvey says, a little weary. He tells Jones, "You go on. I'll take care of him."

Jones takes a long look at the kid between them. Mike is clumsy, but he can still sit upright when he needs to. He's caught that the mood around him has changed, but hasn't yet figured out what that means. His upraised face is cheerful, exuberant. Jones asks, "You sure?"

Harvey's not carrying the kid back to the hotel, and he's not letting the kid be seen in uniform intoxicated on the streets of Tampa. "Rachel and I can get him changed and we'll pour him into a taxi. He's rooming right next to me; at least this way I know he won't wake me up five hours from now knocking on the wrong door."

Rachel has no idea what he's talking about, but Jones chuckles and shakes his head. "Don't go wandering down the halls naked at dawn, you hear?"

"I'll do my best not to," Harvey assures him with a bland smile. Mike slips an arm over Harvey's shoulder, and doesn't seem to mind that he gets shrugged off. Jones laughs again, and heads back in to the party.

The upside of Rachel being in sports medicine is that she doesn't bat an eyelash at the idea of stripping a guy naked. She is humming at some grand wisdom of Mike's with his socks in her hand as Harvey returns with the heap of ragged street clothes from among Mike's things. The kid really has no sense of how he presents himself. He is staring at Rachel with that profound attention of deep intoxication, and she pats him on the cheek in response. It's almost funny: normally Harvey would take him aside and warn him against hitting on the female staff, but that's not necessary in this case.

"How is he going to make it on this team if one bottle gets him this drunk?" Rachel asks, laughing.

Mike straightens up. "I will have you know it was two bottles," he says, wagging a finger. "One from Nunez and one from Purser. They're very happy for me."

In lieu of an answer, Harvey yanks a t-shirt down over Mike's head, and manipulates his hands into the arm-holes. Automatically, Mike takes over, and so they don't actually have to help him into his underwear, just provide someone to lean on as he puts them on himself. It goes quickly after that. Rachel ties his shoes and stands in front of him and runs her fingers through his hair. "You look good," she says. Maybe Harvey needs to take _her_ aside.

But first he has to lead Mike down the hallway, past aides and coaches and teammates. It takes a lot longer than Harvey expects: they all stop for Mike, slap him on the shoulder, offer congratulations. The playoff roster isn't set yet, but everyone seems to agree Mike will be on it. 

At last, a taxi, and Harvey orders them back to the hotel. Mike sways in his seat at every turn, a beatific smile on his face as if he were riding a Tilt-a-whirl at a carnival, not in the back of a foul-smelling Crown Victoria in Tampa.

"What happened to avoiding mind-altering substances?" Harvey asks as he scans the traffic through the windshield.

Mike turns to him, that deadpan serious that only drunken people can master. "They found me anyway," he says, with a helpless shrug.


	15. Chapter 15

Harvey is used to the postseason frenzy. Some players flourish under the attention, brightening any time a camera-light goes on; some players see it as their duty or their opportunity to get their name out there in hopes of an endorsement contract. Harvey loathes it all cordially, and the veteran reporters know how far to push him.

It's pretty rare for a September callup to make the playoff roster, even if he is a specialist. Mike is the story of the hour, a fact Harvey discovers by finding a gaggle of reporters impeding his way into the clubhouse. They cluster in front of Mike, voice recorders held high like offerings. Mike stands there bemused, and blinks at every flash of the still camera. He is Uh-ing and Um-ing his way into a coherent sentence when he sees Harvey a-scowl behind the throng.

"Okay," he calls, animated now, eyebrows high on his forehead, "everybody step forward. We're walking, we're walking --" he beckons them forward as he backs up, just two strides till they're close to the middle of the clubhouse and out of everyone's way. "-- and we're stopping, that was great. You guys should start a marching band."

Chuckles from the rumpled-sweater set. Harvey slips past them under Mike's ironic gaze and finds his spot. He settles into a chair and watches the show.

The thing Mike probably doesn't realize is that the absence of TV cameras signals his insignificance in the media scheme. He can be as charming as he wants, and the fans won't know who he is unless he does it on camera. Honestly though, he's not bad. He makes eye-contact when he answers questions; he thinks before he says anything (the print guys can edit out the Ums); he laughs at jokes and offers jokes of his own. His mouth purses to say _fuck_ and the adroit consciousness is clear: the pause, the search for an alternate word, the little acknowledging smile as he swaps in that alternate and moves on. There's a lot going on behind those gawky blue eyes, and print reporters in particular drool for that. They'll sprint off to their mechanical typewriters to exposit the intelligence and presence of Rookie Mike Ross.

There are a lot of lunkheads in baseball. There are a lot of guys who don't speak English well, or speak it but only in cliche mode. To find a player who is funny and charming and willing to talk, and isn't needy or with that undertone of mean -- that's gold. Mike needs all the friends he can get. The tradition of clubhouse discretion will be in his favor.

The reporters finish up and get herded out. Time for the team to knuckle down and be ready to play. Harvey can see the nerves around the room: Esmeraldo rubs his hands together and Bessom is eyes closed, holding the cross he wears around his neck. Nunez is resisting all attempts to shut him up. Mike's sparky energy fits into the dynamic fine. It's like he's been here all season long.

He sits down in front of his jersey and takes off his shoes: those shapeless sneakers again. What Yankee would be caught dead in shoes like those. Mike is smiling to himself, still wrapped up in the show.

"Man," he says to nobody in particular, "I wish Jones was here."

Harvey knocks wood and hisses at him, "Don't be stupid. You're wishing for an injury on one of the guys who _did_ make the roster. Maybe it'll be you."

"I didn't --" Mike falters under Harvey's gaze. Harvey raises a knuckle along with his brows, and belatedly Mike knocks wood as well. "That's not what I meant."

"Don't fuck around with luck. It'll fuck you back."

"Anyway, I gave him my Game 2 tickets. Jones, I mean. If he can't play, at least he can get the best seats in the house, right?"

If he is not careful, Mike will just keep on talking till they call his name on the loudspeaker. He'll run out onto the field and toe the foul line (the relievers are in number order: he'll be last), and he'll still be in his jeans and stocking feet. Harvey regards him coolly. 

"Someday you'll have shoulder surgery in late August, and you'll find out that the best seats in the house are terrible compared to playing."

Mike blinks at him, half-in and half-out of his jeans. Shyly, he extends a hand to his locker, and knocks on the wooden edge a second time.


	16. Chapter 16

Almost nothing is different, physically, between the playoffs and the regular season. They've played Chicago before; the stadium is the same size; the uniforms are the same and the relievers cool their heels for the first six innings as always. (The first eight, if Cesik's on the mound and knocking them dead, as he did in Game 1.) Harvey sits in the bullpen as usual, but the air is sharper and the lights brighter and the fans louder and more distinct. The lenses of attention are focused, and Harvey thrives on that feeling.

He eyes his teammates as they sit waiting patiently. Fortaleza, Sasaki, Valle demoted from 5th starter to the bullpen, Esmeraldo, and last of all Mike Ross, with a big artless grin on his face. His cheeks have got to hurt by now; he's been like that for the past three hours.

Game 2. October nights are chilly, the air unpredictable. They watch the flags on the top the stands carefully to assess wind-speed. It's 3-1 in the 7th-inning stretch ( _God Bless America_ , and it's unfortunate how quickly that song gets dull) and the bullpen phone rings for the first time.

"Okay," calls the coach. "Sasaki and Esmeraldo."

They stand and stretch, jackets off. The rest of them sit watching, hands in pockets to ward off stiff fingers. Most of them have been here before, and recognize the hurry-up-and-wait of playoff relief. You don't get good warning when you'll be needed, and you never get warning of when you won't. You just have to be mentally ready, all the time. Mike has been fidgeting for the last half-hour.

There's not going to be a call for Mike. He's too fresh, too unknown a quantity still. There are ten pitchers on the roster, and he's the tenth. They probably won't use him at all in the playoffs. Not unless they're desperate. Mike doesn't know that yet, and Harvey's not going to tell him.

Esmeraldo gives up a run right about the time Harvey gets the call. He stands up and sheds his jacket like all the rest, adjusts his cap. He stretches out his arms and flexes his knees and then he's ready to pick up his glove. It's cold on his fingers, the leather stiff. Harvey starts to toss and the bullpen coach sends out Sasaki for the last out of the 8th.

Warmer and harder, Harvey works himself up to speed. The sweat breaks out on his back and immediately chills in the breeze. It's going to be a tough night, he's already sure. He throws a cutter, another, and the break is weak. Without its change in direction, a cutter is just another fat meatball, and Harvey's going to have to work with his other pitches. He's feeling out his wrist on the sinker when the top of the 9th rolls around. It's 3-2 Yankees.

Big breath, another. Harvey feels the relievers' eyes on him. The bullpen coach gives a nod and the music starts up and Harvey steps out the door and onto the field. Tip of the cap, sprint to the mound. Always the same, even when he's not feeling it. Always the same: never give up a clue to the opposition.

Litt can tell. He lifts his mask to spit in the dirt. Harvey throws a couple of warmup pitches, just fastballs, and Litt whips them around the infield to keep everybody alert. The batter stands in and Harvey brings the ball to his chest.

Straight-up fastball first, the kind he'd usually throw as set-up for the cutter. Then a ball low and away, to make sure he's got location. He tries the cutter, and it still won't break. It's a miracle when the batter swings and misses it. Litt flashes a signal, and they decide to go up the ladder: Harvey throws a rising fastball that crosses the plate way above the strike zone, but the batter's already pulled the trigger on his swing. Strike three, and it's goddamned lucky. The stands shout for him.

Harvey fusses with the rosin bag and then blows on his hand in lieu of celebrating. In his peripheral vision he can see the Chicago coaches signalling one another: Specter doesn't have it. Specter's weak today. It's not going to be possible to fool every batter he has to face.

Chicago's shrimpy shortstop steps in next, a righty with a light bat. Harvey tries him with the sinker and it's a weak grounder to third. Third base isn't covering that close, and why would he? The Ghost doesn't pitch to contact. Batter sprints into first base safely and the throw follows, too late. 

One on, one out. The catcher flies out to short left on the first pitch. _That_ is luck: the runner doesn't advance.

Two down. Orgullo is up next, and not very patient. The fans razz him mercilessly and he ignores it, watching Harvey. Harvey leans in and watches Litt think about what to throw next. They've been working together a long time now, and don't really need to talk. They throw Orgullo balls, one away and one inside. He doesn't even lift his bat. He knows. 

The crowd turns like a flock of birds in flight. It's not a big obvious move, but Harvey can feel the volume and pitch in the bones of his skull: they're faltering. Just for them, he throws a hard fastball, gets Orgullo to swing and miss. It's not the kind of thing he can do twice in a row. Harvey throws his change-up to try and fool him on speed, and fails.

He watches it over his shoulder as it goes. High, far, and into the upper deck. The stands go quiet. Two runs round the bases and Harvey blows on his hand again. It can't be blamed on his cold hand, or on the weather, or on anything else: it's his pitch, that's how it works. It all belongs to him. 60,000 people get to watch him blow it. 4-3, Chicago.

They get to watch him blow it and then still have to get the last out of the inning. It's a home game: the Yankees can still win it in the bottom of the 9th. It's a mercy when the next batter hits a weak grounder to first. Harvey comes down off the mound and ignores the friendly shove Litt gives him on the dugout steps. He's not the kind to throw a tantrum where people can see it. They've seen enough already.


	17. Chapter 17

He watches the game end on the television in the trainers' room with an icepack on his shoulder. The Yankee bats don't even make contact. So he gets the blown save _and_ the loss, fuck you very much. Rachel is stretching out his forearm and stops to watch the commentators.

"Well that sucks," she says, and digs her fingers into the meat of his thumb. "Did you feel anything out there, or was it just --?"

"I'm not in any pain," he tells her, as always. His wrist feels a little tight, but that's just tension. She bends his hand forward and then back, frowning. Harvey says, "Whoa, whoa, unlike some people I _do_ have all the ligaments in that hand."

"You're developing the musculature unevenly," she says, not really to him but to his knuckles. She bends the fingers back independently from his palm. "Oh, please tell me you're not using one of those squeezy things for hand-strength."

"What? Why?" Which is as close as he's willing to come to admitting it. He's had that little rubber ball for years.

She squints at him, lovely hazel eyes. "You're sore right here." She pinches the back of his forearm at the midpoint, hard. She's a physiologist: she gets a grip on the actual muscle, and it twitches against her fingers.

"Not worse than usual." Harvey watches her long skinny fingers glide up to his elbow and then down again. The _last_ thing he needs is someone trying to sideline him over a sore muscle. There isn't a guy out there who isn't sore.

"Quit the squeezy toy immediately. Between that and the sinker practice you're over-using the muscles on the posterior side," and Rachel strokes the back of his forearm again, "and making them do twice the work of their anterior twins. I'm gonna give you some stretches to do every night."

It comes clear to Harvey what she means suddenly. "I can't change my rituals. I have to do 100 reps on that thing --"

"Not if you're going to use the sinker, you can't. You're giving yourself tendonitis in your extensors." Rachel is firm: "One or the other, not both."

But Harvey has played this game before. "Tendonitis is just inflammation. I can work with that."

She breathes out though her nose and moves the hairs on his forearm. It gives him gooseflesh. "You're not Mike Ross," she says. "You can't just go abusing your hand and expect it to hold up."

"What'd I do?" Mike asks as he pokes his head in. His hair is still wet from the showers. He nods to Harvey. "Hey, you all right?"

"Fine," he grouses. "Blew the save, is all."

Mike stands there with one hand on his towel, his eyes on Rachel as if she'll contradict him, but she's not stupid. She holds up his hand as if it were some kind of artifact, rotating it like an intricate machine. "Will you let me stabilize this? Just for the night?"

"No. Absolutely not."

The machine in her grip turns back into a hand, and she grasps it like a friend. "Harvey, This is your ability to play in the next series we're talking about. If you go down with an injury now, you're off the Championship roster." Mike opens his mouth, but he knows what's good for him and closes it again.

"I'm due in the press room in ten minutes." Harvey shakes his head. "I am not giving them anything to speculate about. Now if you'll quit babying me, I have to go put some clothes on."

Neither of them has ever sat in the press room on a night like tonight: after losing a crucial game, at home. Harvey's done it before, but that doesn't mean he likes trawling through his mistakes one by one, like the world's slowest traumatic flashback. The cameras soak up every hesitation and testy response to a stupid question. Forget reporters trying to interview you fresh out of the shower: this is the real naked, and it's broadcast to the world without any discretion. It's how the game works, and Harvey hates every second of it.

Rachel is clear-eyed, unmoved. "If I gave you an ACE bandage and an icepack, could I get you to use them instead of your ritual tonight? Just privately, not where anyone can see it."

Mostly just to get her off his back, Harvey says yes. He pulls on his jeans and buttons up his shirt with one of Jessica's flunkies standing over him, headset on and ready to usher him into the press room. He could refuse, but part of his unspoken agreement with reporters is that he'll be available when he does something legitimately newsworthy. They won't leave him alone if he doesn't show, and they won't give him the benefit of the doubt. Harvey does prefer a good reputation over a bad one. He ties his shoes and is out of procrastination methods. He nods to the flunky, and stands. Mike lingers nearby, alert; Harvey isn't sure why.

Seated in front of a table, with the bright lights on him and the reporters enunciating into their microphones, Harvey takes question after question. During the season, the questions are primarily technical: pitch sequence, alterations of technique, air temperature and humidity and angles of sunlight. But the playoffs bring out the clueless, and Harvey sits there explaining remedial concepts when what the viewers really want is just to be told it won't happen again.

Someone from the print corps shouts from the back. "So can you speculate why the cutter wasn't breaking?"

Fate, chance, physics. Air temperature, altitude, fine details in forearm physiology. The moisture content on a callused fingertip. Harvey searches for an answer that will satisfy the viewers and notices that Mike Ross is standing in the back, against the wall. Just standing there, observing every gesture, his gaze intense. He is not taking notes in his little book.

"I wish it had," says Harvey. "Obviously I'm going to do everything I can to make sure it does in Game 3."

A little nod from Mike: he approves of that answer. He does not look away, even when the reporters are distractingly blunt.

"Any comment on the fielding positions when you're throwing the sinker?" asks a woman from the networks, on the hunt for divisive drama. 

Harvey is not so foolish he'll badmouth his teammates. "I'm just the pitcher," he answers. "All I can comment on is the pitching." He glances at Mike again to see how that goes over. Steadfast, Mike leans against the wall with the kind of ready languor that usually takes years in the major leagues to perfect.

He stays there after the questions have gotten repetitive, after the columnists have tuned out and started composing the next morning's copy with their thumbs. Mike stands in the back through every idiotic question and diplomatic answer, and never turns his gaze away. By the end of the session, Harvey is speaking directly to him more often than not, and Mike speaks back in silence with his facial expressions. They do it in a full press room, and not a single reporter wonders what is going on.


	18. Chapter 18

Donna listens with great sympathy to the litany of dislike for icepacks, ACE bandages, the little Velcro things that hold ACE bandages, and the universe. When he's run out of things to complain about, she asks, "So do you want to win the next one or not?"

"I hate you," says Harvey.

"And that's why I'm your agent," Donna reminds him.

Harvey hangs up. They're in Chicago for Games 3 and 4. He is in his hotel room, that dull comforting sameness from one city to the next, and Mike in the adjoining room playing cards with a couple other pitchers. Harvey turns away to finish up his sadly-foreshortened nightly routine and hears a gleeful call: "Go fish!"

So much for games of deep strategy and patience. They heckle one another and Harvey recognizes the voices of Purser, Valle, and Esmeraldo. The cards slap against each other and someone crunches an obnoxiously loud snack. 

Mike is obviously losing at Go Fish. He asks, "Why aren't we playing canasta again?"

"Is against my religion to gamble," says Esmeraldo. "You got any nines?"

Harvey is brushing his teeth and can't tell just by listening whether any nines change hands. Mike tries to point out that canasta is not a gambling game and is overruled summarily. Valle asks for sevens.

"Oh, fuck you and your sevens," Purser grumbles. The slap of cards against one another.

"Yeah, you know you want me," laughs Valle, and it turns into a whoop and a series of thumps. Harvey ducks a head in to find out what happened and Valle has been toppled off the bed, his cards fluttering at Harvey's feet. Purser gives a mean chuckle. Over his head, Mike notes Harvey's brief presence and the state of his undress: he knows the evening rituals well.

Esmeraldo laughs so hard he has to put his cards down and wipe his eyes. "Frustration is bad for pitching," he intones, elder statesman among his disciples. "You got to get the energy out or your fastball go wild." He cranks his wrist like a slider and cracks up again.

Baseball players are not, as a rule, able conversationalists. Most of them are deadly boring and the ones who aren't eventually reveal themselves to be crazy. Harvey learned not to stick around for late-night rap sessions about insufficiently adventurous girlfriends around the time that he learned not to tip his pitches. He turns on his bare heel and leaves.

"I fucking wish," mumbles Purser.

"Aw, I get plenty," Valle protests amiably. Up off the floor, he regathers his cards and grabs himself another handful of orange junk food. "This one time, down in Trenton, hey Mike, you ever go to that place --?"

Oh, _wonderful_. Back in his own bathroom, Harvey turns the tap on high to drown out the sound of reminiscences about where to find the best sports groupies in Trenton, New Jersey. The fact that they're trying to reminisce with the one guy in the team guaranteed not to have partaken is what turns it from annoying to unbearable. Harvey breathes out and tries to refocus himself on his evening routine. He's more or less rebuilding it from scratch, now he's not allowed his hand-strength exercises.

A raised voice breaks his morose reverie. It is Valle again, persistently sunny: "Bet Specter can find you a girl. You got a little black book for every AL city, right?"

In fact, Harvey does not have any little black book. That would imply he ever meant to see any of his partners a second time. "I got better things to do than pimp for my goddamned teammates," he calls back.

Valle is single-minded. "He find you girls, Mike? It's his duty as your teammate to make sure you're no virgin."

Mike's laughter from the other room is quick, easy. "You seem to think I wasn't able to take care of that myself. Honestly, it's insulting."

"Oo-oo-ooh." They chorus their curiosity like children in a schoolyard. This could get out of hand pretty quickly, if Mike isn't careful. Harvey stands very still and listens.

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," Mike demurs. "And with the twos I know you have, Beto, that is the ballgame."

The rest make noise but they don't sound like noises of argument. Harvey shakes his head and puts his toothbrush away and Mike's guests rustle around the room picking up their things. They're gone by the time Harvey has wrestled his ACE bandage onto his wrist. Mike leans alone in their shared doorway, hands in his pockets.

"You know, if you were nicer to them, they'd be a lot nicer to you."

"They're not worth my time." He pulls on a t-shirt and combs his hair. Mike paces into the room and finds another wall to lean against so they can see each other in the mirror. 

The bandage is an awkward, frictive presence on Harvey's forearm, like a flaking scab. It bothers him in a way he can't name. He tugs at its elastic edges, awkward in front of Mike and irritated with himself at his awkwardness.

Mike reaches out, smiling, and gently pulls his hand away. "You'll do yourself more harm than good."

He has rough calluses on his fingertips, like Harvey, like everyone else on the field. His eyes are bright in the mirror. His hands are spindly and his hands are hot, and without thinking Harvey yanks his wrist out of Mike's grip. Mike lets go without a fight, 

"Sorry," Harvey mumbles, more for the expression on Mike's face than his physical abruptness. "I'm an asshole when I'm hurt."

"My understanding is that it's a milestone that you'd ever admit to it." He stuffs his hands back into his pockets. He quips, "Being an asshole, I mean. Think you'll be able to pitch tomorrow?"

This kid is an indestructible optimist. Harvey reminds himself of it firmly: _this kid_ , on his first time through the majors, the playoffs, the spotlight. It is so incurably stupid. Harvey _can't_ get attached to him.

"Of course," Harvey says, and turns. He hits the lights and puts them both into darkness. Adroit, Mike sidles out of his way and back towards the door without being told.

Harvey rolls into bed and closes his aching eyes. "Go to bed, Ross," he calls.

"Good night, Harvey," Mike tells him softly.


	19. Chapter 19

All systems are go in Game 4: Harvey warms up alongside Sasaki in the 9th, mostly just to see how it feels. Sasaki will be fine finishing out the game and winning the series if necessary, but it feels good to stand on that little hill and stare in 60 feet 6 inches. The catcher's mitt waits for him, open as always. Harvey knows how to throw.

And the cutter breaks. It breaks _well_ , right in the strike zone till suddenly it isn't. Harvey is pleasantly surprised he can still throw it effectively with the twinge running down his forearm. Maybe it _is_ the humidity that does it. He's speculating to himself about meteorology when the bullpen coach beckons to him: he's going to get to play after all.

Harvey steps out onto the warning track and looks out at the field before he starts his sprint. The anxiety he hadn't even realized was in him dissolves and he is the Ghost again, effortless on the mound. It's always like this, just him and the ball and the buzz of crowd noise. One out left in the 9th. This game, and they're on to the Championship series.

The truth is, Sasaki could have handled it. But managers are playing today's game as well as five games ahead: whoever they face next (probably the Red Sox) has to see that the Ghost is still in play, still effective. Harvey's lips twitch against the amusement of the chess moves so obviously laid out. He'd better not fuck this one up.

He doesn't. It's smooth, easy. A fastball, two cutters, another fastball just outside. The final cutter is a beautiful sideways arc, a marvel of physics. It slaps into Litt's glove and the game is over. That's how it's supposed to go.

The celebration is more focused this time: they're thinking ahead to future games and future potential opponents. The clubhouse televisions are tuned in to the National League games. The position players chatter about this guy or that one, people they played with in the minors or winter ball, reputations and weaknesses and how to face them some time soon. Harvey takes a Champagne bottle away from Mike without a word, and swigs from it himself.

"Hey," says Mike, over the din of their teammates. "That was mine."

Harvey shakes his head. "Unlike some people, I can handle my liquor."

Eventually, the press room will call for Harvey, and he'll talk through every twitch and nostril-flare that went into getting that last out. It's what the fans want, and he doesn't especially begrudge them, not when it's a win and not when he's had the chance to finish off the bottle first. Litt is down to his jockstrap and socks, thumping backs all over the room, red-faced and shouting at the NL West game on the screens above their heads.

"Yankees-Dodgers in the World Series! The way it's meant to be," he calls. He tries to rest a hand on Harvey's shoulder and it's not too much effort to shuffle him off. He crashes to the floor and bounces right back up again, indestructible in his inebriation. "I told you, Harvey. Didn't I tell him? Mike, did I tell him?

"You told him," Mike chuckles. Harvey notes a wise avoidance of Litt's physical affection. Fortaleza is not so lucky and is dragged into a bear-hug. _Help me_ , he mouths over Litt's shoulder, and their side of the clubhouse whistles and cheers.

And that's about as much celebration as Harvey needs to do. He gets up and ambles into the trainer's room to let Rachel hold his hand for awhile. 

He'd expected to be alone in there, but he's not: Bessom is lying tense on his back on one of the tables, naked as a jay. Bessom is too tall for most trainers' tables, and his heels hang a good six inches off the end, as usual. Having started the game and come out after six, he should be dressed and in the press room, or even done with the press room by now, but there he lies, ice pack on his shoulder and the shine of liniment on the skin of his hip. It's thick in the air, a sharp medicinal smell. Two of the trainers are standing over him with frowns on their faces, and a third turns around with a syringe in his hand as Harvey watches.

Harvey has roomed next to Bessom for four years, till a month ago. Which is to say, Harvey has known about Bessom's tricky hip for three and a half years. It's not something they ever discussed in the clubhouse, and Bessom does outlandish strengthening exercises in his hotel room that sometimes involve hilarious cheerleader splits, on which Harvey has been sworn to the gravest secrecy. He turns his head to the side and notices Harvey's presence and just nods, lips pressed together. His pain tolerance is _phenomenal_ , so if they're giving him painkillers, he's got to be in really bad shape.

"Cortisone?" Harvey asks, and keeps his voice clinical, disinterested.

Rachel's the one who answers, her arms crossed and her shoulders up around her ears. "Best to wait a day or two, till all the tests are back. That's just Lidocaine." She is at Harvey's elbow, as if his appearance in the room gives her legitimacy. Eyes averted, she leads him across the room: sensitive to Bessom's modesty, or maybe to his pride. She positions herself so that Harvey can see and she can't. "How'd you feel out there?"

"Fine," Harvey lies. Rachel rubs something onto her hands and gets to work.

Her voice is low, private. "If they even let him pitch in the Championship Series, which they shouldn't --"

"He's a competitor," Harvey interrupts. "He'll pitch till his leg falls off."

"Like I said," says Rachel, and presses her thumb pretty hard into Harvey's forearm. "Thank goodness he's the 4th starter. In a best of seven series, he only gets one start. And that means they can give him the cortisone shot right before Game 1, so he has time to recover."

Cortisone is the wonder drug of professional sports, technically a steroid but not the illegal kind. They inject it right into the spot where it hurts (say, the rotator cuff of your pitching shoulder) and after a day or two the swelling goes down and you can function just like normal. That day or two, though: excruciating pain reaction at the injection site, a constant reminder of the crazy shit you'll do to stay on the field. Harvey's had three cortisone shots in his life, and agreed to surgery to avoid a fourth.

"I assume he hasn't been to the press room yet?"

Rachel concentrates on her work. "Yes he has. He wouldn't even take an icepack for his hip. He didn't want people asking him about it, so he said he'd do without."

"Who wants to talk to the press with numb balls?" Harvey asks her, loud, so Bessom will hear.

"You don't seem to mind it too bad," Bessom tells the ceiling, and his voice is tight, but not desperate. The Lidocaine is working.

That insistent little thumb digs into Harvey's forearm again and he chuckles rather than let out a groan. He's got a good twenty minutes of Rachel's intensive hand-holding, and then _he_ gets to go to the press room without an icepack. The hell of it is, the painkillers Bessom's on, he won't even be allowed any Champagne. Harvey's still got the bottle cradled in his left arm, but he's not going to drink it in front of Bessom.


	20. Chapter 20

The flags in Yankee Stadium snap east, southeast, east again. Game 1 of the Championship Series is windy, brisk but not cold. Harvey stands on the foul line as they announce the home team roster and soaks up the confidence of the fans. On the opposite foul line the Red Sox stand waiting, as expected. They won their series ugly: errors in the field, blown saves, a lucky walkoff homer. Their hitting is all they've got to hold them up, and Harvey will have something to say about that. He's looking forward to it.

As usual, Mike's is the last name called on the roster, thanks to being a reliever and having #92 on his back. He comes trotting out of the dugout to take his place on the line, grinning like a kid, and he doesn't seem to care that half the fans don't know who he is. He's in Yankee Stadium in the ALCS, and that's enough. He probably doesn't hear a word of the pregame formalities.

The last wave of cheers flows over them, aural overload, and then some dignitary at home plate shouts "Play ball!" into the microphone, and the players are allowed to move. The position guys head back into the dugout and the relievers stroll in a clump toward the bullpen. Harvey's listening to Fortaleza and Valle talk grips on a circle-change when he realizes Mike is hovering at his elbow with a long face. It's not too difficult to slow down a fraction till the rest of the relievers are out of earshot. 

"What?"

"How's Bessom?" Mike asks, solemn.

Harvey gives a noncommittal shrug. "We're all hurting," he says.

"You've got a mind like a steel trap. Things go in and they never escape." Mike laughs a little. "His girlfriend's been in the stands for every game so far."

"I know." Harvey glances over at the family section, and sees her. Long blonde hair, southern-polite like Bessom is. Harvey can't remember her name. 

"That's my grandmother she's sitting with." Mike waves, and Harvey sees a small gray-haired woman wave back. She's wearing a Yankees cap as if it were a live squirrel perched carefully on her head. A blanket covers her knees: she looks frail. She's grinning ear to ear, and turns to the girlfriend to point out Mike. "She raised me a Mets fan, but --"

Of course he's a Mets fan. Lovable losers, all the way. If the Dodgers were still in New York, he would root for the bums. Harvey shakes his head.

"If you talk to Jessica they can get her a handler. Some intern to keep her happy, fetch her pretzels and beer."

Mike looks at him. "They do that?"

"Don't know if you don't ask," says Harvey. He keeps his head high, scanning the crowd. Around playoff time the billionaire corporate types come to actually use their box seats. He recognizes a few faces in the field-level seats next to the dugout: a Congressman, actors, a comedy writer. A retired librarian who probably spends half her pension on those season tickets. She offers a thumbs-up and he gives her a nod back. He's never said a word to her, in the nine years he's been here. She waves her scorecard in the air, impenetrably confident.

"She never misses a home game, does she?" Mike asks at his side.

"Never," says Harvey, without breaking his gaze. "She had cancer twenty years ago. Before my time. She missed two games with chemo or something and the front office called her at home to make sure she hadn't dropped dead."

She gives Mike a thumbs-up too, and Mike breaks out that dazzling smile again. "What's her name?" he asks, as he waves to her.

Harvey plucks Mike's sleeve to steer them properly toward the bullpen. "Dunno."

"Really?" That sharp blue gaze, as if Harvey's admitted to a weakness.

"I need to know her name? She's Section 114B, Row 12, seat 4. Used to be closer in the old stadium, but they reconfigured to have more celebrity seats."

Mike cracks up, and they jog to catch up with Valle and Fortaleza.

The bullpen settles in for its customary long wait, but it's clear as early as the second inning that Cesik is struggling. A seven pitch at-bat, a ten-pitch one. He walks two in that inning and one in the third. Harvey watches his teammates tune in one by one, and listens to the quavering encouragement the fans offer. Valle is already up, stretching his balky elbow while he talks it over with the bullpen coach, as Cesik gives up a bloop hit to the #9 hitter.

Chatter dies out quickly and they're all watching as a line drive to right brings in a run. Another walk, a seeing-eye single, a long fly ball that bounces over the fence and right into the bullpen catcher's glove: somehow in 20 minutes they're down by five. Valle shucks off his jacket and cracks his neck, ball in his hand. The phone rings and everyone knows who they're calling for. Valle steps onto the raised earthen mound and starts warming up.

Top of the fourth, Cesik's first pitch goes into the left field bleachers. That's enough, obviously. Valle hears his name called and shakes himself once before opening the bullpen door. Harvey leans forward and puts his fingers against the glass. (Fucking new stadium. Netting used to be good enough, and gave you a better feel for the air on the field to boot.) That long jog into the infield, the fans' recognition that something's gone wrong. Valle doesn't usually have to go through it, as a starter. Relievers are used to it.

There isn't a lot more humiliating than standing there on the mound and having the ball taken away from you. Harvey's only had it happen to him a handful of times. End of an inning, or most of the way through seven, it's understandable: they're saving you for the next game. You've done an honorable job, or at least eaten up the innings. In between batters, in front of everybody, they're taking you out because you've fucked up and they don't think you can fix it yourself. Maybe the fans aren't booing yet -- this isn't _Fenway_ for fuck's sake -- but they're not cheering you either. At best they're cheering the next guy, the guy on his way in from the bullpen, the guy sent to clean up your mistakes. Fresh arm, fresh start -- chance to still win this thing. No pressure, Valle.

He's got to eat up at least three innings, maybe four. They can't afford to tire out too many arms, not in the first game of the series. Not with the knowledge that Bessom might still be a problem come Game 4. You're never playing just the one game, but the two or three games after that.

The stadium watches every pitch like the bases are loaded. No game is ever conceded, not at home, not in Steinbrenner's house. Valle gives up one in the sixth, bad luck on a respectable curveball, but the groans are few. He's kept the score close, and the bats can still bring it off. Valle does his job, and lasts through the eighth. It's 8-6, eminently winnable.

Litt, of all people, hits a 2-run homer while Harvey warms up for the ninth. The only way Harvey knows is the shouts of his teammates: he can see nothing but the bullpen catcher's glove. Twinge down his forearm, the satisfaction as the ball comes off his fingertip. It's good. Maybe not great, but good. Sasaki and Fortaleza and Ross are slapping each other on the back, all smiles. Esmeraldo is sitting on the bench with his head in his hands, too nervous for camaraderie. Harvey stands alone at elevation and nods to himself at the speed of his fastball. He's ready for this.

He sprints into a tie game and keeps it that way. No: he sprints into a tie game and kills the last of the Red Sox' momentum. They're helpless in the batter's box, swinging wildly, mashed down small under the weight of the stadium's attention. Harvey only has to throw eight pitches. He retires to the dugout and sits on the padded bench in case he's called in for the tenth, view and companions alike unfamiliar. He sits there, a warm towel wrapped around his forearm, his glove on his knee, and waits for his team to give him the win.

Single, walk, double the lead runner home. Sometimes, the Yankees get to make it look easy.


	21. Chapter 21

And they're back again a day later for Game 2: series like this, there's hardly any point in going home overnight. Windier today, and more humid; Jessica had the televisions in the lounge set to the weather channel, so they all got the chance to watch the storm front moving in on radar. It's still over Pennsylvania at game time, so they're going for it. (Television contracts. They fuck everything up.)

Nunez does well on the mound. He's efficient and speedy, but he also gets a great assist from the oncoming storm: flies to left reach a certain height and start backtracking in the wind. As the game goes on the flags change direction from south to east to north, and in the third Harvey has to equalize the pressure in his ears. A rain-shortened game would be disastrous for the league: they're going to play this one soaking wet or they're gonna wait till 2 AM to pick it back up. Either way, Harvey's not looking forward to it.

Mike slings himself onto the bench next to Harvey and offers him some gum. "My ears," he says, and Harvey nods. They watch side by side in silence as Nunez takes out the top of Boston's lineup. He points to the sky after every strikeout, although on a night like this it comes across as admonishing the rain not to fall till he's done for the night.

October rain is always cruel. It breaks overhead in the top of the fifth, and the players scramble for the dugout as the grounds crew scrambles in the opposite direction to cover the infield. The pitchers retreat to the lounge, the weather channel still on mute. Nunez heads to the showers: he's done for the night. Harvey finds a chair by himself and settles in with his headphones, comfortable. He contemplates the dissonances of early bebop as the others organize themselves into a massive eight-man game of canasta, playing with four decks of cards.

Mike is in the middle of it, as expected. He cracks jokes and calls out improper play and teases Esmeraldo mercilessly. He's obviously no better at canasta than he is at go fish, but he doesn't seem to care. Sasaki's allowed to play with his translator kibbitzing over his shoulder and Valle laughs and laughs, the perfect straight man for Mike's comedy. So to speak.

When the call comes from on high, almost three hours later, Purser is winning at canasta with Bessom a surprise in second place. They leave the cards where they fall in hopes of picking it up again later. Out onto the field while the sound system plays organ music: it's still raining. Not as heavy as when it started, but chilly and dull, the kind of rain that numbs the skin and soaks you through in about a minute. The infield is already turning to mud. Faithful fans sit huddled under ponchos and umbrellas in clusters, joined slowly by their more poorly-prepared brethren with newspapers held over their heads. It's going to be one of _those_ games. Fucking television contracts.

Nunez is out for the night. It's the fifth inning. Valle's the longman, but he pitched yesterday. Harvey settles in out of the rain and watches the bullpen coach as his eye travels over the available arms. Fortaleza is the name called, and he heads out to warm up, inasmuch as that's possible in this weather.

Harvey does not jump up and remind the coach that he can deliver six outs. He just gives a nod when that eye roves in his direction, and they understand one another. It probably won't be called for, not unless they're protecting a tiny lead, but Harvey can do it.

Fortaleza gets them into the sixth, but not without giving up the go-ahead run. His shoulders steam as he stands out there on the mound, the brim of his cap dripping. Harvey is already picturing himself out there, the friction of wet clothing, the squeak of his shoes. That squirm as rain mixes with sweat and runs down your back. The phone rings.

"Ross," calls the coach, and Mike stiffens and looks around as if he's just been caught doodling during history class. It takes him two blinks to remember where he's at, and what he's here to do. He strips off his jacket and heads right out, warming up in what's faded down to a dim drizzle. Tiny droplets cling to his hair and skin and catch the stadium lights.

A flash of white whizzes by in front of Harvey's eyes, stitches weirdly still as the ball rotates slowly in flight. When he's warming up, Mike can throw anything he wants, so the next pitch is a fastball (not all that fast), then a 12-6 curve, and after that something supremely strange that rotates plenty but doesn't go anywhere near the catcher. 

"Sorry, sorry," Mike calls, a smile on his face. "Trying out the circle change." His voice is muffled by the glass. It's not clear who he's talking to. He regroups on the mound and brings his knee up high and goes back to his bread-and-butter, the float ball. Harvey realizes suddenly that this will be his first appearance in a playoff game.

Mike is concentrating on the catcher, on the ball in his hand, on the mechanics of his throw and follow-through. He doesn't even notice the rest of the bullpen watching him. He doesn't notice the phone ringing or the coach stumping over to answer it or the rough way his name is called: "Ross. _Ross_."

Abashed, Mike turns his head and walks down off the mound toward the bullpen door. They're down by two in the sixth, and Sasaki can take over in the next inning. It's just two outs, maybe only one if Sasaki warms up quickly. Mike steps out onto the field to the clatter of camera shutters and the sporadic cheers of the thinned-down audience and the curling fog of humidity. He does not pause on the warning track, overwhelmed. He just runs onward toward the mound and is ready to play.

Mike gets an out, then gives up an infield hit. He strikes out his last batter swinging and he looks like he's got the hang of it. As first performances go, it's fine. They're still three innings from the end, and down by one, but there's only so much one drowned-rat teenager can do. He walks off the mound down into the dugout and directly toward the showers, and Harvey watches him go.


	22. Chapter 22

"Does it always suck like that?" Mike mumbles from the passenger seat, one hand on the side window. He traces the tracks of rain as they slide by. 

Harvey glances over. "Losing? Yes, it does."

And of all things, Mike Ross starts laughing. "That's what I like about you, man. You're so freaking blunt."

Harvey drives them south along the edge of Manhattan, the river to their left black in the night. They don't talk after that, just stare out the windshield side by side at the city lights. Harvey had expected some chatter about the car (a Porsche), but Mike doesn't recognize it, or doesn't care. He sits quietly while Harvey changes gears. They pull into Harvey's underground garage and head up. The city lights again, on three sides of them, only now they're within it all rather than seeing it from outside. Harvey never gets tired of that view.

Mike puts his head against the wall. "Willy Wonka's great glass elevator," he says to himself. It's exactly what Harvey thought when he first saw it, and a big reason he bought the place. The kid is uncanny.

Screwdrivers are still a novelty for Mike, who obviously never had the chance to get tired of them in college. Harvey winces a little at drowning perfectly good vodka in orange juice, but at least he can adulterate them enough that Mike will have to go through three or four to even get tipsy. Right now, Mike is sitting cautiously in one of the ultra-modern barstools Harvey has at his kitchen counter (that aren't very comfortable; he's not sure how they got there and how they've managed to stay) shredding a napkin. A white hay of paper flutters around his wrists.

He accepts the tall glass and demolishes it, drinking it down in about a minute. Harvey has hardly begun to nurse his own whisky when Mike stands to try and mix himself another. "Take it slow," Harvey objects.

"I need all the vitamins I can get," says Mike, head and shoulders deep in Harvey's fridge. His second drink looks like it's twice as strong.

"You have to be ready to pitch for Game 3."

Mike rolls his eyes and takes a sip. "How come there's nothing in your fridge but orange juice?"

"Because I don't cook."

"Like, at all?" Mike laughs. "Even breakfast?"

"No. I cut my thumb slicing a tomato once, and decided it wasn't worth it."

"Really? That was all it took?"

"You ever seen a fingertip avulsion? Fellow I knew in college threw a curveball and the pad of his middle finger just ripped right off in a single flap."

"That," says Mike, "is gross."

"I don't use knives. So no, I don't cook."

It is an admission shocking enough for Mike to put down his glass. "What, you eat takeout for every meal?"

"This is New York. If you can't have it delivered, it's probably not worth having."

Mike Ross laughs as if he were already drunk, a high-pitched full-body laugh. He slaps his hand down on the marble and leans over and laughs some more. Harvey watches from across the countertop as he calms down and wipes tears from his eyes, and then loses it again and laughs like the peals of a bell. Mike is lithe, muscular, effortless. Harvey could watch him laugh all day.

After a little while he comes down off the high of his own amusement and stands there with the glass next to his hand. The skin around his eyelids is wet, but he doesn't wipe his eyes again. His mouth turns up in something speculative, a smirk or an ironic question. Harvey can't look away. But Mike can, and does, as he paces down the length of the counter and around it. He's coming up to Harvey, his steps measured and unhasty. Harvey stands still next to his uncomfortable barstool and lets him do it.

They're close. Of course they're close: that's what pitchers do. They don't waste time on jawing; they move, they intimidate, they stare. Mike is right up close in front of Harvey at the bar and he puts his hand down next to Harvey's glass of whisky. Harvey does not move his hand. Sweat breaks out between his shoulder blades, on his palms.

The speculative little smirk on Mike's face slips away. He leans in, serious, and kisses Harvey. His lips taste like orange juice, sweet but with that sharp hint of alcohol too. Harvey's pulse thunders in his temples as he licks up the flavor from Mike's open mouth.

"I knew it," Mike murmurs to himself. "I knew it."

Harvey feels the warm breath on his cheek and pulls away. "Listen, I don't --"

"Yes you do," Mike interrupts, and pushes forward again. Harvey's own mouth betrays him: he does. The angle is easy with someone his own height, and the hard body against him. It's thrilling, painful, thrilling. He can smell Mike's sweat and feel the unshaved stubble on his cheek. Harvey brings up both his hands, and they rest against Mike's heaving chest. He can feel a racing heartbeat through his palms.

Mike's hands are wandering. His pitching hand rests for a second on Harvey's hip and then it wanders forward and touches Harvey's belt buckle. Tugs a little. 

It's been so long. Harvey lets out a shaky breath and pushes Mike back an inch. "It's a bad idea." 

"The closer of my pitching staff is wound so tight you could spin him and generate electricity," Mike answers, a half-smile on that mouth. He's got a knuckle against Harvey's abdomen, just a mild stroke upward, and then down, and up again. "Relieving his stress levels isn't just a good idea, it's practically patriotic."

It's been so long. Mike is all muscle and bone and the hot flush in his neck. Harvey doesn't say no. When a couple of fingers slide into his front jeans pocket, he doesn't stop them, and he doesn't resist when they pull him forward. He lets himself be towed ten feet across the room and then Mike leans in and kisses him again, forceful, and shoves him backwards into a soft chair.

Harvey sprawls there ashamed and afraid and churning in his head: this kid is nineteen. This kid does not understand the consequences. There are a million reasons why this shouldn't happen and Harvey can't even blurt out one.

"It's not like I'm going to tell anybody," says Mike, and slithers to the floor. Mike is on his knees unzipping Harvey's fly with every intention of sucking him off.

This is really happening. Harvey is sitting in a lether chair in his own apartment with the magnificent view behind him and his teammate's hand on his thigh. Mike is quick and efficient and does not hesitate one bit. Harvey sucks in an unsteady breath and puts out a trembling hand and his fingers run through Mike's short hair. His skin is hot and his scalp sweaty. He works steadily, amusement in his eyes, his fingers stroking the crease of Harvey's hip. It's hot, of course it's hot. It's a little frightening how hot it is. It doesn't last long before Harvey's done.

He sits there panting while Mike zips him back up. His adam's apple moves in his throat.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Harvey can't speak. The leather of the chair is clammy under his forearms, reflecting back his body heat. He watches Mike stand, lifts his chin to see Mike's face lit by the city's neon. His mouth is wet, a gleam in the night. He gives a sardonic little laugh and shakes his head. 

"No, don't get up, I'll let myself out." And he does, leaving Harvey behind.


End file.
